Sticking Point
by Leven Kemal
Summary: Set early pre-series. Serenity is stuck dirtside, with major engine trouble. No one's exactly tickled about that fact, some lots less than others. In fact, for some, it's downright crazy-making. --3rd of 6 in a Mal & Wash story arc.--
1. Day One

Title: Sticking Point (1/9)

Rating: PG13

Disclaimer: I know and you know these people belong to Joss.

* * *

A.N.: The seed for this comes from two snips of _Firefly_ dialogue. The first is in the following exchange between Mal and Bester in _Out of Gas_:

_Mal_: (_Walking in on Bester and Kaylee going at it in the engine room_.) What's this I hear about another delay? ... You do realize we been parked on this rock near a week longer 'n we planned?

_Bester_: Yeah, but- There's stuff to do.

_Mal_: As for example that job we got waitin' for us on Paquin. When we landed here you said you just needed a few days before we were space worthy again and is there somethin' wrong with your bunk?

And this between Zoe and Wash at the beginning of _Shindig_, as they are landing on Persephone_:_

_Zoe_: Heard tell though, we're gonna stay a while on Persephone, upwards of a week maybe.

_Wash_: Shiny!

_Zoe_: (_Seriously_) Yeah? Thought you'd get land-crazy, that long in port.

_Wash:_ Probably. But I been sane a long while now, and change is good.

* * *

Eight days stuck on this rock, and Mal couldn't decide which of his crewmen he was gonna shoot first, the mechanic or the pilot. T'was a real conundrum. He needed his mechanic to fix his ship, and once fixed, he needed his pilot to get them back into the sky. And while in the grand scheme of things, the mechanic probably deserved shooting more, the pilot was, his own personal self, driving Mal _kuangzhe de_, and giving him no small portion of anxiousness. Didn't help that Renshaw, that poaching _hun dan_, had lit down in his all-too-perfectly flyin' boat yesterday, and had been sniffin' around after the man.

After the past eight days he'd just had a lesser man – or a man without what Mal's mama had named "pig-headed pride" – might be havin' second thoughts about this whole sailing-just-out-of-the-Alliance's-reach notion. 'Cuz a ship needed to be aloft for that to work out, and it had been over a week since flight had been an option.

~Day 1~

First day down, he hadn't been entertaining murderous notions of any sort, mostly on account of being grateful to be alive. If he had been, though, Mal knew his pilot would not have been their focus, as he was pretty gorram sure the guy had just kept them all from a fiery demise. Could definitely not say the same about the mechanic.

Mal'd had no practical reason to be on the bridge. But in the six months _Serenity_ had been flying, it had become his habit to at least make an appearance there when they were hitting or leaving atmo. Couldn't say why, exactly. Wasn't like he could take the helm and save the day if Wash came up against a situation he couldn't handle. Zoe _might_ have had a chance, being born and raised on a heavy transport. But she was no pilot, by training or inclination. (Otherwise, there would not now be an array of plastic dinosaurs arranged in strangely evocative patterns on the helm.) She often joined Mal, though, standing behind him, one hand on the back of the co-pilot's chair. It was true that landings and take-offs did tend to be among the more exciting parts of this whole space-going venture. This particular landing being a case in point.

Wasn't much to draw _Serenity_ to Wyoming, the moon spinning furthest out around the gas giant, Heinlein. Not much more than a rock with some air, although ten years ago it had been self-sufficient, with just enough agriculture and industry to keep its hardy people fed and busy. However, having spent what little treasure it had, in lives and resources, on the losing side of the War, it now languished under the non-benign neglect of its supposedly compassionate Alliance overseers. Not much of a market, either black, white, or gray. But for someone in Mal's line of work it still remained, in the right part of its primary's orbit, a convenient, unremarkable drop-off site. That was _Serenity's_ business here today, lighting down just long enough to drop off one package and pick up another to carry on to her next port of call on Paquin. No coin coming their way, the job being just one of those favors Mal and Monty tossed back and forth between them.

"Just a touch an' go this time, Wash," he declared as he settled into the co-pilot's seat, peering through the front screen at the rapidly approaching dun colored moon. "Zoe 'n' me 'll make the swap, might take a little look 'round. Should be no more'n a few hours though. You lay us down a course for Paquin, have us ready to go." Mal felt rather than heard Zoe come up to stand behind him. He glanced back at her, noting her slightly narrowed eyes sweep over the helm's tell-tales. She'd still not warmed to their pilot, seemingly unable to find it in herself to extend even the smallest measure of trust toward the man.

"Paquin, yep," Wash replied a bit absently, eyes fixed on his board, fists tight on _Serenity's_ quivering yoke. He'd been tinkering with the guidance hydraulics for months, but entering atmo still set them to rattling pretty hard. Growing friction heated her belly and nose, dull red flares flickering up over the forward screen.

In the thickening atmosphere, Wash brought the pods' turbine blades on-line, further slowing the rush of the world coming toward them. Then _Serenity's_ nose made a sudden unexpected dip to the left, quickly coming back up at Wash's corrective twist of the yoke. His right hand darted up, hitting the comm connection to open it ship-wide, then down, to play with the toggles Mal recognized as the jets' power feed controls.

"Hey, Bester, what's up down there?" he inquired. "Just lost about forty percent of thrust from my port pod."

Mal shot a quick glance at his pilot's face. His expression matched his voice, calm, unconcerned. So maybe losing some thrust was no big deal. Though forty percent seemed a tad on the high side.

"_Um, yeah, hang on, there's a–_" Bester's voice, a little more anxious than Mal cared for, was followed by sharp bang. With great assurance, the man then announced, "_That's got it_."

_Serenity_ abruptly lurched to the right – starboard, as Mal was training himself to think – and then kept spinning, fast, seemingly intent on corkscrewing herself straight into the ground. The ship's internal gravity kept things inside her more or less steady, but the world rapidly whirling toward them definitely inspired in Mal some internal uneasiness.

"I would say that it is _not_ got. Port's still at sixty, starboard's now only giving me ten." Wash's voice, while still calm, had become more clipped. "Can you clear the-"

"_Screw you, Washburne! I'm workin' on it!_"

"Fine, okay. Look, dirt is less than thirty seconds away. I'm gonna boost the screens."

"_But that could fry the grav damp!_"

"Yep. Hang onto something, everyone."

Part of Mal desperately wanted to object, 'cuz while he had only a vague notion as to the grav damp's purpose, he was gorram sure he didn't want _any_ part of his boat fried. But he kept his mouth shut, remembering Wash had got him and the damaged shuttle down in one piece on Ita, and the guy's hands were moving with the same deft assurance on the helm as they had then. 'Sides, a goodly portion of his breath had been snatched when his innards had swooped up into his throat when Wash diddled the grav slider. He heard Zoe gasp softly behind him, became aware of both her hands clenching, pale knuckled, on either side of his head on the back of his chair. A crash and a pained squawk over the still open comm let Mal know that his mechanic had failed to take Wash's advice.

Wash managed to stop _Serenity's_ spin and get her nose back up, seemingly by sheer muscular effort. But the ground still came at them mighty fast, and they landed hard, the shock absorbers on the landing gear squealing in metallic pain as they over-flexed. _Serenity's_ undercarriage bumped dirt, a deep, drum-like note echoing through her belly. Jarring as it was, that was all Mal heard; no cracks or snaps or ripping sounds. Pale yellow dust billowed up around them, obscuring the forward view. Wash, fingers flying through the shut-down sequence, muttered imprecations in impressively colorful Chinese. Behind him, Mal could hear Zoe take a series of deep breaths before she said with a rather peculiar tension, "I'll be in my bunk."

Surprised, Mal swiveled his seat around, but she was already vanishing through the outer bridge hatch. "Huh," he said toward her retreating back. After unclenching the death-grip he had on his armrests, he stood, turning to his pilot saying, "Gonna go see if Bester got his neck broke," and found he was addressing the man's backside as he crawled underneath the helm.

"Uh huh," Wash replied, voice muffled. "I'll be down as soon as I figure out what I just blew. Could be a capacitor. Something's spilling ozone."

That explained the lightening-storm tang in the air. Mal nodded at Wash's buttocks, and set off at a clattering trot for the engine room.

* * *

_hun dan_ – bastard

_kuangzhe de_ – insane


	2. Day Two

Title: Sticking Point (2/9)

Rating: PG13

* * *

~Day 2~

Second day down, Bester claimed he was still trying to track down exactly what had failed and why, and then, depending on what it was, that he might need a couple days to set it right. While irksome, Mal took the news philosophically. This had certainly been the most exciting of _Serenity's_ glitches to date, but her past abuse and neglect had left her countless pestiferous bugs, most just annoyingly flea-like in size. Some though, like this one, were large and potentially deadly. So, knowing occasional delays were inevitable, Mal tended to pad their schedule a bit, and his contact on Paquin wouldn't expect them for a few days yet.

Wash informed him he'd found and fixed whatever he'd overstressed on the helm while landing, then asked permission, as they had at least one day of down-time, to recalibrate the sliding lube injector on the dinglebobbler of the major coupling hoo-ha so as to refine the forward thrust controls on the primary yoke shaft. Hoping he was talking about technical stuff and not his sex life, Mal gave Wash the go ahead. Then, Monty's brown paper wrapped parcel tucked in Mal's coat pocket, he and Zoe walked the couple kilometers into town.

First half klick they trudged through loose, pale soil. Mal noted it was nothing like the damp, near-black earth of the huge kitchen garden his ma had put in every year. He kicked at a clod and it burst in a dry puff of dust. Only thing growing was a scatter of dandelions, plantain, and soybean volunteers.

"Don't look like this piece is bein' worked," he commented to Zoe. "Likely our landin' did no harm." She merely grunted in reply, her ship-side upbringing leaving her ignorant of and indifferent to the ways of dirt. 'Cept for maybe being a solid place to light down on every now and then.

They came to the road, not much more than two ruts pressed firm by the passage of truck tires, criss-crossed by the prints of heavy horses. Walking was easier here and they picked up their pace. It had been cool when they'd started out, but the exercise had warmed them up, and they both undid their coat buttons. Coming up on the town proper, the first structure they spotted Mal took to be a garage, set as it was in the center of a fenced junkyard. It was closed up and quiet, but sorta cheerful looking despite that, as someone had spruced it up with odds and ends of leftover paint; splashes of bright green and yellow and sky blue.

The road went from dirt to asphalt here, and set back from it a ways, across it from the junkyard, was Wyoming's minuscule but actual spaceport, with two _Serenity_-sized berths. No utility hookups, but Mal noted the water tanker and the honey wagon parked next to the landing slabs. Continuing on down what proved the town's main street – its only street, with a few alleys radiating from it – they found shops and two official type buildings, one a combination sheriff's and post office, the other a tiny schoolhouse, straggling between a clinic, a couple churches, and a bar. Some of the shops were dark and closed, maybe permanently, and everything but the churches and the bar could've done with fresh coats of paint. The bar, where they were to make the package swap, looked to be doing good business, maybe on account of it being near lunchtime. And Mal noted the open sundries store, thought he'd check the prices later, do a little restocking if they were any good.

He and Zoe ambled past the bar to the other end of the street, where the asphalt ended and dirt began again, opening up into fields of soybeans. While down, Mal decided the local folks were by no means out. The few they'd passed the street seemed friendly enough, offering amiable greetings, clearly curious about two strangers and their purpose, but too polite to poke into it. Or maybe just a little wary of the guns strapped to their hips.

He and Zoe turned back into town, now intent on their task, heading for the bar. That fine establishment possessed a broad, whitewashed front, double doors set between two wide windows, both open to the fresh air, green and white checked curtains stirring slightly in the faint breeze. They stepped up from the street onto the porch, the wood creaking a bit beneath their boots.

As they went through the door, Mal first and Zoe just behind his right shoulder, their eyes automatically swept the room beyond. Bar stretched out across the back; tables scattered throughout; a dartboard set up on the back wall to the left, toe line clearly painted on the wooden floor. A door behind the bar likely led back to a kitchen, 'cuz Mal caught a whiff of hungry-makin' garlic.

_Some_ drinking of the heavy variety was going on, by three ragged looking fellas who seemed to have a permanent berth in the right back corner. They had a shared half-empty bottle of amber liquid set before them, fingers curled around topped off glasses. But while most the other five or six customers had a pint in front of them, they also were chowing down on a tofu-veggie stirfry, probably the bar's kitchen's lunch special. Two women, maybe in their mid-thirties, one dark, the other a vivid redhead, dickered quietly but intently over a pot of tea and scones, the redhead tapping their table with the hook of her prosthetic hand.

And of course, both Mal and Zoe instantly noted the lawman in his tan uniform settled at the corner of the bar itself, tucking into a sandwich, a ten ounce glass of beer at his elbow. His eyes had slid to the door as Mal had pushed it open, and Mal met them, smiling genially. He led Zoe straight to a couple stools at the bar, just a few seats away from the sheriff.

"Y' got a pale on tap?" he asked the barkeep.

"'Course," she replied. A tall, raw-boned woman, black hair pulled back severely from her face, her guarded, almond shaped eyes met Mal's directly before she turned them on Zoe. They shared a quick look and nod.

"Two of those then," Mal went on. "And a couple plates of the lunch special, if you're still servin'."

"Yep."

The pints came right up, and as Mal and Zoe took their first sips, the sheriff, a very short, barrel chested fellow, dark hair gray-streaked at the temples, addressed them.

"You're off that Firefly."

"True enough," Mal answered, pivoting on his stool to face the man. "Captain Malcolm Reynolds, at your service. This here's my first mate, Zoe Alleyne."

Zoe dipped her head with a polite, "Sir."

"Name's Huan. We don't have many traders comin' in and out of Wyoming on spec much. Not anymore."

"Actually, we're kinda off our intended course. Little engine trouble obliged us to make a detour."

"We got a spaceport, y' know."

Having a working spaceport often meant a lot to a small world's civic pride, so Mal was quick to acknowledge that. "Yes, sir. We did see that. But our trouble was of the type where the velocity of our landing seemed more important than its actual location. Other than it be clear of buildings and people and such like." Mal grinned, letting the sheriff know he didn't consider his ship's problems particularly dire.

The sheriff nodded, saying, "That happens." He took a sip from his glass. "And Mr. Song was gonna let that field you're perched in lie fallow this year. So no harm done."

"Glad t' hear it," Mal said sincerely. "And if Mr, Song is lookin' for recompense for our squattin', we're open t' discussin' that. Though we mean to be gone as soon as can be."

Sheriff Huan heaved a heavy sigh. "Yep. Not much to keep newcomers on Wyoming these days. And our young folk tend to drift off with the least possible provocation."

There was a devil rose up in Mal at times. Had been as long as he could remember. And this time that devil wanted to say, "At least this world's got young folk t' provoke."

But he choked that devil back, as he most times did, and in the moment it took him to do that, Zoe was saying, "Watch your pint, sir. Here's lunch." And he lifted his ale out of the way as a steaming dish of tofu-veggie stirfry slid in front of him. Ginger and garlic teased his nose as saliva filled his mouth. He took up the chopsticks the barkeep set beside his plate and dug in.

Huan left them to the silent, serious business of filling their bellies with a decent meal, finishing off his own sandwich in a couple bites. After swallowing the last of his beer, he slid down off his stool. Picking his wide brimmed hat off the bar, he said, "Diego sure makes a fine corned beef, Alice. You tell him I said so. And could you have your boy run a couple orders of the special over to my office? We got young Frye cooling off in the lock-up, and him and Heber are probably feeling a little peckish by now."

"Sure thing, Andrew."

Fifteen minutes after the sheriff left, after he'd polished his plate clean, Mal drew Monty's parcel out of his pocket and set it casually in front of him. Blocked from the view of the rest of the room by Mal and Zoe's bodies, the bartender took a swipe at the bar. The package vanished with the passage of her towel. A couple swipes later and a different package appeared, this one a little flatter and wider, and wrapped in white paper. As they rose, Zoe settling their tab with the barkeep, Mal scooped up the parcel and put it in his pocket.

And with that, their mission on this moon was complete. Easy-peasy. Mal hoped the next step, gettin' back into the Black, would be as simply accomplished.

~*~


	3. Day Three

Title: Sticking Point (3/9)

* * *

~Day 3~

A couple hours after his second dawn on Wyoming, Mal found himself in his ship's engine room, obtaining something less than satisfaction from his mechanic.

"Nah, sorry, Mal," the man said breezily, absently running a thumbnail along the line inked under his left pectoral. "Still no go. Plus, Washburne set us down pretty gorram hard. Think he busted some connections loose, an' so I gotta run those down too, an' that's on top of his nearly fryin' the gravity damper on the inertia screen."

"His landin' had nothin' to do with us losin' power to the pods in the first place. Y' suss out why that happened yet?"

"Well, no, but I checked off some things it weren't. Like, I thought maybe it was a block in the fuel feeds, but it ain't. Those're clear. Don't help now the drive axis has gone all hinky, can't even get it to turn, to run power through the system." He shot Mal a sideways look. "Prob'ly, y' know, 'cuz of that rough landing."

"We're done discussin' the landin'. I am satisfied, as captain, with the quality of our last landin'. You focus your mind on _your_ job, of gettin' _my_ boat back in _that_ sky." He pointed an emphatic finger upward, affixing Bester with his best captainy glare.

"Sure, I'm on it, Cap," he replied, grin just a little too cheesy for Mal to believe he was taking the situation as seriously as he should. "But it might take a little longer than I first thought, what with the hinky drive an' the loose connections an' all."

Mal sighed. "Just get it done, Bester."

He left the man to his work, frowning his frustration as he stepped through the engine room hatch. And nearly ran smack-dab into Wash, lurking just outside it.

"So, what's the deal? Has he tracked down the problem? Did he give you a time table, tell you when we'll be able to lift off?"

Blinking at this rapid fire peppering of questions, Mal held up a quelling hand. "No, to all of the above."

"_Tzao gao_," Wash muttered, gaze dropping, fingers lighting down for a moment on his upper lip to twiddle with his mustache. Then, eyes widening, he peered into Mal's face, pressing, "Not even a general idea of when we can get back in the Black?"

"'Fraid not. But we're due on Paquin within the next few days, so sooner rather than later, I'm hopin'."

"Uh huh. Well, maybe I can lend him a hand," Wash offered eagerly. "I'm not a mechanic, but I do know my way around a toolbox."

"Good idea, that," Mal approved, gratified to be getting some enthusiasm from at least one of his crew. "You go on and do that."

~*~

* * *

_Tzao gao_ – crap, damn


	4. Day Four

Title: Sticking Point (4/9)

* * *

~Day 4~

Next day, around mid-morning, Mal swung by the engine room before he hiked into town, and found both Bester and Wash there working. He didn't interrupt them, simply pausing long enough to hear Wash saying, "...sinking like a stone until the governor cut in, diverting power to the screen system, which gave just enough time to flip the pods..."

In town, he had a bit of a palaver in the bar, arranged through Sheriff Huan, with Song Dou, the soybean farmer who was currently hosting _Serenity_. After a leisurely conversation over a few ales, they came to an amicable agreement, and after enjoying a couple more pints and the lunch special of _maodou_ succotash, they parted ways.

Then Mal wandered down to the sundries and supplies store, looking to restock their protein and coffee stocks. He found the pickings slim, many of the wooden shelves bare of any goods. The coffee, even mixed half with baked chicory root, was prohibitively expensive, so he had to take a regretful pass. He made a mental note to find a job touching down on Greenleaf soon, 'cuz raw bulk beans came dirt cheap there, and roasting their own always smelled good. Protein, however, turned out to be a great deal. Not surprising, as Wyoming's major crop was soybeans. He ordered a rainbow's spectrum of paste, both delighting and flustering the store's proprietor, Mrs. MacGregor, a tiny, dried up wisp of a woman. Unlike suppliers attached to a spaceport, she didn't have the amount Mal wanted on hand. But as that particular supply business had folded years ago, her little shop was his only option. So he said 'fine,' to having half the order delivered to _Serenity_ the next morning. She'd try to get the other half put together as quickly as she could, but thought she'd need a couple days to do so.

"Can't guarantee we'll still be lit down a couple days from now, ma'am. In fact," he informed her forthrightly, "it's my fervent hope we'll be aloft soon after we take on what you deliver tomorrow."

"Fair enough, Captain Reynolds. But no harm in seeing how quick I can get the rest of your order in. The stuff keeps forever, so all it means is my stock room will be crowded for a while, 'til I can get it sold off in dribs and drabs."

"Well, you get it together an' I'm still dirtside, I'll buy it."

She agreed, happily taking his coin for the first half of the order, as well as that for a kilo of fresh tofu. 'Cuz Zoe always managed to do something amazing with that, and she had dinner duty that evening.

He returned to _Serenity_, bound and determined that he'd be getting the good word of her imminent departure. But Zoe's expression when he came upon her, sorting their canned goods in the kitchen pantry, quickly disabused him of that notion.

"No?" he queried, hoping against hope that maybe she was simply put out by some recent silliness committed by Bester and/or Wash.

"No," she returned, her response terse even by her standards.

He sighed, put the tofu in the 'fridge, and wound his way aft to the engine room, hovering outside the hatch long enough to hear Wash, sounding a little hoarse, saying, "...turbine blades chewing each other up in a cascading failure..."

Dinner, at least, was rewarding, Zoe putting together something that had the rest of them smiling even as tears sprang into their eyes with the wasabi-burn of it all. Mal had himself on the roster for clean-up, which was always easy after Zoe. He didn't know if it was her ship-side upbringing or her army training, but she tended to tidy as she cooked, never leaving much of a chore behind her.

Bester, having by now heard about the bar in town, and that its hours ran past midnight, let Mal know he'd be out at least that late, and took off. Mal speculated that it was possible the guy might find some sort of satisfaction there besides a good beer. It had seemed to him more of the sort of place patronized by folks who knew each other too well for casual encounters to occur. But it could have a whole different atmosphere in the evenings, and besides, Bester was a stranger. That could serve to his advantage, as an added enticement. Or maybe not.

He and Zoe played a triplet of star checkers, and he managed to win the second game, which spurred her on to thrash him in the third, and then they both called it a night. She headed aft for the shower, as it was her turn in the rotation.

Wash had gone forward after dinner, and Mal had assumed he'd hit his bunk. But on his way to his bed, he noticed the dim light shining through the open hatch to the bridge. Curious, he climbed the steps.

Only a scattering of LED running lights were up. Most of the light spilling onto the bridge came from the razor thin slice of Wyoming's neon blue primary reflecting through the front windows. Deep, deep Black stretched beyond that, pierced by the bright points of the stars ranging outside the 'verse.

"Hey, Captain," Wash murmured as Mal stepped onto the bridge. The whites of his eyes reflected eerie blue as he rolled them in Mal's direction. He seemed quite comfortable, lounging in the pilot's seat, its back tilted at a forty-five degree angle.

"Wash," Mal replied. And from there, he really didn't know where to go.

His pilot shifted his gaze back out the front window. "Gone over our best steps toward Paquin again, Captain. They shift, y' know, with every twirl of this moon, with every swing of its primary." Wash's hands swept down over his chest, then came to rest lightly on his thighs. "But that's okay. It's lovely. Like a dance."

"Suppose that's so," Mal said agreeably.

"Just wanna be in there, Mal. Dancing. Not watching from the outside."

And that Mal understood completely. "Won't be too long, Wash," he said. "Before we're all up there again, dancin'."

"Ah," Wash sighed. Then after a few moments, he hinted, "Goodnight, Captain."

"'Night, Wash," Mal replied, turning away to head back down the steps, leaving his pilot alone with the stars.

~*~

* * *

_maodou_ – young soybean


	5. Day Five

Title: Sticking Point (5/9)

* * *

~Day 5~

The next morning, to Mal's surprise, especially after the man's evening out, he found Bester awake and in the galley before any of the rest of them, fiddling with the coffee percolator. Mal noticed he was putting the filter in upside down, and took over before he could ruin the entire pot. He seemed to have something on his mind, given the way he was chewing on his lip and running his hand through his hair. Hoping he wasn't opening himself up to a woeful tale of sexual misfortune – 'cuz given how tense Bester was, he clearly hadn't gotten lucky the night before – Mal asked, "What's up?"

"Washburne," he blurted, eyes wide and a little weird. "Y' gotta keep him outta the engine room."

"Do I?"

"Mal. Captain. Please. Two days. Two solid days he's been in there with me, pokin' around, askin' questions, messin' with my tools. He's a freakin' _flyboy_, knows squat about engines, but thinks he can tell me what's what. Goin' on and on about this glitch he had here and that crash he had there. _Ni tama de_!" His fists bunched. "I'll take a spanner to his skull if I have to hear another word, swear t' God!"

Mal allowed himself one long slow blink over that last statement, giving himself time to think it all through. Truth be told, Bester had lost his geniusy luster in the last couple months. Besides being an uncomfortable crewmate of the sexually over-sharing story-telling kind, Mal was positive _Serenity_ could be flying faster, farther, freer than she was. Wasn't exactly rational, this impression. But he had it anyway. (Wash, he felt certain, was the exact right pilot. To the point he was willing to ignore Zoe's reservations. And that was a pretty major ignoring. He couldn't remember any other significant personnel decision they'd differed on.)

Threats toward fellow crew, though, this was new from Bester, never the excitable type. Kinda hard to get him fired-up about much of anything, actually, especially work. Looked like Wash had discovered how to get him riled. Too bad it was goading him into fantasies of violence instead of into increased productivity.

Motion at the hatch pulled Mal's gaze there, as, yawning hugely, Wash stepped down into the the galley. Still in yesterday's flightsuit, the hair on the back of his head standing up in a wild tuft, clearly he'd spent the whole night in his chair. While not the first time he'd done so, they'd always been on the move before, and he'd been wanting to be close to the helm as _Serenity_ flew through some hazard. Was no reason – no _sensible_ reason – why he'd be sleeping in that chair while they were dirtside.

Bester saw him too, and, with a pleading look, whispered hoarsely, "Mal! Please!"

Lips tight, Mal gave him a single, affirmative nod, then said coolly, "Get yourself fed. Then get busy." Then he leaned in, lowering his voice. "And don't ever think about raising a hand to any of my crew."

Eyes widening, Bester took a step back, then with a jerky nod, averted his gaze. Head down, he reached for a bowl to serve himself some porridge from the slow-cooker Zoe'd started the night before. Meanwhile, Wash entered the kitchen, murmuring a groggy, "Good morning" before clattering around in a cupboard for a mug. Then, rolling it between his palms, he stood by the stove, rocking slightly, waiting for the percolator's last burble.

Bester slouched to the table, and Mal got himself some of the protein porridge, which smelled pretty gorram good that morning. Zoe'd gotten a hold of some raisins and cinnamon somewhere. Then he swapped places with Wash to get at the coffee, while Wash got a scoop of protein.

Mal wondered if he had a real morale problem coming to a head. Even given it was the first thing in the morning, both his crew were unusually quiet. And Bester, generally given to a leisurely tempo during meals, scarfed down his protein at a pace which suggested he was eager to dive back into the problem of _Serenity's_ stricken engine. Mal suspected otherwise, suspected it was Wash perched on the edge of his seat across the table from him as he ate his own breakfast, watching him intently through pink-rimmed eyes that drove Bester on.

Zoe walked in in the middle of this, one brow going up as she got a sense of the peculiar mood. But she collected her coffee and porridge without comment, seating herself as usual at Mal's left hand.

"Mornin'," he greeted her.

"Mornin'," she replied, studying first Bester, seated one chair down from her, then Wash, just across the table.

Bester kept his head down, mouth too busy with his breakfast to say a word. Truly strange was that Wash simply nodded in her direction, before turning his gaze back on the mechanic. Usually he responded to any of her general greetings cheerfully, with an unshakably sunny smile. Now he ate on in stolid silence. Zoe began eating as well, eyes on her food. But Mal could tell most of her attention focused on Wash, and he watched as the set of her brows took on a slightly miffed angle. He couldn't fathom that, as Wash saying just about anything annoyed her, and he figured she'd like him better quiet. He took a bite of his own protein, enjoying the sweetness of the raisins, plump and juicy after hours in the slow-cooker. Was then he recollected about a month and a half ago, when Zoe'd last added them and cinnamon to the morning protein, the fuss Wash had made, saying they were his favorite additions to porridge. He found himself turning over two oddities in his mind; first, that Wash had yet to utter a word of compliment, and second, that Zoe seemed to notice that, and even odder, that it seemed to irk her that he hadn't.

His concerns about crew morale deepened.

Bester suddenly rose, and bolted for the kitchen, dumping his dishes in the sink before scurrying aft. Shoveling the last bites of protein into his mouth, Wash stood with his empty bowl, still chewing, to follow Bester. Mal caught him with a hand on his forearm.

"Got some errands for ya, Wash."

"Um. Yeah," Wash said slowly, pulling his eyes from Bester's retreating back and focusing them on Mal with some difficulty. Then Mal's words sank in, and he swallowed his mouthful before going on with growing interest, "Okay. That's good. Errands. What first?"

"First, we should fill up on water. Want you t' go over to the spaceport, they got a tanker there. Want you to see if you can get them to come on out here t' top us off, for a fee that won't empty our purse."

Wash nodded, looking cheerful about doing something to make their ship flight-ready.

"Second thing. Talked to Song Dou yesterday, the fella whose fallow bean field we're occupyin'. He's willin', in lieu of cashy money, to accept our very valuable, fertilizer-quality sludge as payment for our rent. So, when you're down at the spaceport seein' about the water, look into borrowin' their honey wagon. Need you to supervise us gettin' pumped clean, an' the sludge to Song."

Wash nodded again, more dutiful than cheerful this time.

Mal grinned as he promised him, "Y' get first dibs on the shower once ya got all that done. You can make it a long one."

"Long, hot shower, yesss," Wash chortled gleefully, lifting his eyes in hallelujah. While Wyoming had plenty of water, out here away from easy access to the spaceport services, they'd all been restricted to bathing as though they were still in the Black. Which meant sponge baths or cleansing gel with a quick splash in the shower on a rotating schedule, once every four days. And while Mal was of course pleased by the prospect that he, as well as everyone else on board Serenity, would all have shower access in the next twenty-four hours, he was more gratified by the normal, for Wash, jubilant response to the shower issue.

"I'll get your dishes," he said, taking Wash's bowl and mug.

"Shiny," Wash replied with a grin, then headed for the cargo bay.

"Wash." The man turned at Mal's call. "Comb your hair b'fore you go."

Smiling sheepishly, he nodded as he ran a palm over his head, attempting to tame his wayward tufts. "Might take more 'n a comb, Captain. But I'll get right on it." His eyes slid to Zoe, then he turned away, cheeks going pink, both hands now vigorously smoothing his hair as he went.

Mal grinned, pleased to see Wash acting more or less like his usual self. He looked to Zoe, and she gave her head a little shake, rolling her eyes. And it was good to see her acting normal-like too.

A short time after Wash took off, the delivery of protein showed up in a horse-drawn wagon. Zoe and Mal helped the driver unload it, then set about stashing it away, some of it in the galley, but the bulk of it in the bay. A half an hour after that, shifting cases of protein around so that they provided maximum coverage for less innocuous cargo, Mal heard the sound of a large truck's engine approaching _Serenity_. He ceased his sorting to go to the open forward bay hatch, stopping at the top of the ramp. He watched as the tanker he'd noted at the spaceport slowly jounced its way through farmer Song's field. He spotted his pilot through its windshield, sitting in the passenger seat. He caught sight of Mal and waved. Mal lifted his hand in return, then got back to his chore. Some twenty minutes after that, he went to watch the truck drive away, Wash again in the passenger seat.

Was nearly two hours before the sludge collector showed up. Had it been Bester assigned the chore, Mal would have suspected malingering. But that wasn't Wash's way, so he figured maybe he was needing some time to track down the operator of said honey wagon. He didn't hear it coming, as he was back in the passenger dorms, giving those bunks a good dusting, then unrolling, airing out, and re-rolling in the opposite direction all the sleeping mats on the beds. As much as he disliked taking on passengers and having strangers nosing about in his business, he figured he might have to take on a few in the near future, to plump up their peckish purse. Especially as arriving on Paquin in a timely manner was looking more and more problematic. Was Zoe, doing an inventory in the cargo bay, who spotted it, hitting the comm to inform him, "Sludge truck's here."

He came forward, joining Zoe at the top of ramp to watch the truck wallow through the loose soil of the field, following the water tanker's tracks. Again, Wash waved from the passenger seat, and this time, Mal recognized the driver. The redheaded woman he'd seen in the bar the first day they'd gone into town. She too raised a hand in greeting, sunlight flashing off the steel of her prosthesis. Then she steered the truck out of their sight, to Serenity's port side, where the waste-dump access valve was situated. Both Mal and Zoe walked down the ramp and around the side.

The woman had already stopped the truck and opened her door, swinging down onto the ground with a rich, wholehearted laugh which definitely stirred Mal's masculine interest. He heard Wash's voice as he spoke through the cab, though he couldn't make out what he was saying. But whatever it was got another one of those all-in laughs from the driver. Then she spotted Mal and Zoe, and still grinning, pushed the door closed. An echoing slam let Mal know Wash was out of the truck too.

She strode toward them, extended her left hand, the flesh one, to Mal, saying, "You must be Captain Reynolds. Lara Sullivan." He took her hand as they exchanged a look of acknowledgment, one that those on the losing side often shared upon meeting. Her grip was strong, and he speculated that her body, its generous curves apparent even under her baggy coveralls, was equally so.

"Lara Sullivan, my XO, Zoe Alleyne." The women exchanged handshakes and nods. Then Wash, grinning, stepped around the back of the truck, unzipping his flightsuit halfway, shucking it off his shoulders to tie the arms around his waist.

"Sorry I took so long, Captain. Had to hike a few klicks to Lara's place to discuss truck borrowing."

"My fault," the woman interjected. "Won't have the Cortex in my home. Plus, I made him sit and snap a kilo of green beans before I agreed to lend my wagon."

"Never had fresh, raw green beans before," Wash said, giving Lara a wide, crinkle-eyed smile. "Tasty."

Clearly, the two of them were getting on like a house on fire, and Mal had to wonder what other chores Sullivan had required of him. None of his business, really, and Wash's ability to charm spaceport vendors had stood Mal and his purse in good stead over the last few months. Then Wash went on, his gaze flicking between the three of them, "So we'll get to it then, yeah?"

While not quite getting his pilot's diffidence, Mal did appreciate his focus on the task at hand. With a sharp nod, he said, "Carry on." Sullivan about-faced immediately, striding toward the side of the truck, while Wash nodded in return first before ducking beneath _Serenity's_ belly.

"Want me to help, Captain?" Zoe asked, tilting her chin toward the access valve, where Wash was keying in the unlock code at the same time as he was chuckling at whatever Sullivan was saying as she loosed the tie-downs from the wagon's uptake hose.

"No, I sure as hell don't," he stated. "The longer he's workin' out here, the longer I don't gotta worry about him an' Bester an' unauthorized spanner-usage."

She peered at him quizzically, then shrugged, pivoting sharply to head back to whatever tasks she'd set herself in the bay.

Removing sludge took longer than adding water, so it was a good hour before Mal heard the truck's engine turning over. He trotted quickly to the cargo bay ramp, to watch as Sullivan carefully turned her heavy wagon around in the field's loose soil. Headed toward town, she leaned way out the side window, looking back as she waved good-bye. Wash, standing at the foot of the ramp, returned her wave. Mal, upon reaching the bottom to stand beside him, lifted his own hand. After a couple inhales, Mal took one large sideways step away from his pilot. The man shot him a mock injured look.

"Harsh, very harsh," he murmured.

"Think I promised you a long hot shower, Wash. Why don't you go take advantage? Take as long as you like, in fact."

"Your wish, Captain, is my command." And with a jaunty salute, Wash took his sweaty, whiffy self inside, heading toward his bunk for his toiletries, intoning, "Unclean, unclean," as he trotted up the catwalk steps.

And despite Wash's cheerful demeanor, despite his long, indulgent wallow under a hot spray, and his tuneful humming as he returned to his bunk in his bath robe, damp and sweet and clean, for a fresh flightsuit, Mal stood waiting for him by the hatch in the galley. The one that led aft, to the engine room, where Bester labored, looked in on frequently by both Zoe and himself.

Sure enough, Wash soon emerged from the forward corridor, hair even wilder than it had been this morning, standing upright in towel-dried spikes, bee-lining across the galley toward the engine room. He seemed a bit startled when Mal stepped in front of him, blocking the way aft.

"Wash, don't you got dinner duty?"

"Yeah, Cap'n," he replied, smiling agreeably. "But that's not for another three hours. And it's just protein loaf." He stepped sideways, to move around Mal. Mal countered him, and Wash stopped short again, frowning a bit.

"Now, see, that there could be the root of your protein loaf problem, Wash. Y' don't spend enough time on it."

"My protein loaf problem?" Wash stood stock still a moment, frown deepening, considering this.

Mal lifted both his brows. "The pastiness issue?" he reminded.

A momentary chagrin flitted across Wash's face, but then it was gone, and he tried to edge toward the engine room again, saying, "Yeah, but-"

Mal caught his shoulder. "Dinner, Wash. Now."

And son of a gun, if the man's chin didn't jut forward, his eyes narrowing with the first mutinous look he'd ever offered Mal. Wash's muscles bunching under his palm, Mal needed to make a quick decision; hard or soft. And he went for soft, 'cuz while the guy had been acting a little more peculiar than usual the last day or two, in the previous six months, he'd never been anything but a willing, dedicated crewman. Odd, yes, in ways Mal didn't expect he'd ever fathom. But that was okay, 'cuz Wash was a pilot and a good one, and Mal could allow for a pilot being a little more touched in the head than most folks.

"Wash," he said, voice low, gripping both the man's shoulders, but squeezing gently, rather than clamping down. And the way Wash relaxed under his touch let him know how important physical contact was to him. There followed a long pause, then Wash flushed a bright red.

"Sorry," he muttered, clearly embarrassed by his senseless near-disobedience. "I'll go make dinner." He started for the kitchen, but Mal held him back a moment longer.

"Know it's aggravating, Wash. But we're all doin' all we can to get _Serenity_ goin'."

Wash nodded jerkily, not meeting his eyes, then pulled out of his grip, heading toward the galley.

Three hours later, and the unexceptional smell of baked protein wafted from the kitchen. Mal sat at the table, Zoe to his left hand, and Bester, looking sullen and put-upon, one seat down from her, all waiting on Wash.

The guy had never gotten around to combing his hair after his shower, so it stuck up in crazy spikes around his head, just the way his towel had left it. That, combined with the over-large, tooth-baring grin stretching his mouth as he proudly presented the casserole dish, added to the sense that their regular supper-time had just become a slightly creepifying event.

The casserole itself, though, lay at the core of the disturbance. Its surface was mostly the yellowish-tan protein. One corner, though, consisted of series of pointy topped purple lumps. A bright blue oval lay flat in the center of the dish, and around that was scattered a number of green squares.

"Wash, what the hell?" Mal murmured, staring at what was purportedly his dinner, utterly bemused.

"It's a three-dimensional topographical map of the local area, Mal." With a grin, Wash flourished the serving knife, then plunged it into the casserole, carving free a corner. Using the knife and his fork, he lifted it out of the dish, plopping it onto his own plate. He put down the knife to lift his serving aloft, using his fork to point to the colorful striations as he explained them.

"This bottom red stripe is the magma layer, this moon actually has a molten core, neat, huh? And yeah, I know, it's not actually to scale, but hey. And the dark brown on top of that is the igneous rock over that. This blue layer is the aquifer that the town's built over, and then we got another layer of rock and soil, in yellow, over that. And here, see, that oval of blue on the surface is the lake just outside town," and here he pointed at the top of the casserole still left in the pan, "and this line of blue coming down out of the hills – purple mountains or just, y' know, hillocks majesty – is an artesian spring coming up out of the aquifer. These green squares are the soybean fields." His mouth twisted ruefully to one side. "Sorry, I woulda put in the town, all the buildings, probably in red and tan, but I ran out of time."

Mal, Zoe, and Bester all sat in confounded contemplation for a moment, then Zoe inquired dryly, "We're supposed to eat this?"

"Well, sure," Wash replied, flushing a bit, probably because Zoe had spoken to him. "It's just protein loaf." To prove his point, he dug his fork into the slice on his plate, and shoved that bite into his mouth, chewing animatedly. After a few moments, his face fell. "Still pasty," he said dejectedly. "And I worked on it for hours."

"Well," Mal said, forcing an up-beat tone into his voice, "y' tried. An' it's certainly the most... edifyin' dinner I've been served in a good long while." He took up the serving knife, saying, "Pass me your plate, Zoe."

She shot him one filthy look, but then obeyed, receiving her portion, then stoically tucking into it. Mal's pointed glare and the fact that Zoe didn't keel over dead after her initial swallows had Bester reluctantly holding his plate out to accept a slice. Mal cut him a special piece, with a nice swath of purple mountains majesty. Then he served himself, generously, one and a half soybean fields gracing the surface of his square. He took a bite, wincing inwardly, and was relieved when it tasted pretty much like every other protein loaf Wash had ever baked. Bland, a little pasty, but essentially inoffensive. Truthfully, given the basic ingredients, there wasn't too much more a cook could hope for. And at least the guy had tried to make it geologically interesting.

All through this, Wash had his head down, mechanically shoveling and chewing, clearly any sense of fun he'd had in his little culinary adventure dissipated by his crewmates' reaction to his offering. Mal wanted to break through the barriers the man had set up, clearly signaled by the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head. But he couldn't think of a word to say, hampered as he was by the fact that he truly did not want to encourage the liberties Wash had taken with their foodstuffs. He glanced at Zoe, more or less out of habit, because she tended to step unquestioningly into any breech he had left open, even the verbal ones, forgetting for a moment that it was _Wash_, whom she had absolutely no use for, at the core of this situation. But she met his eyes, and for once her look wasn't so much, "_You_ hired him, he's _your_ problem," but more "Sorry, I just don't have a handle on this one." Like maybe she cared that their pilot might have just stepped over the line into officially nuts.

Silence stretched on, and was then Mal realized how many casual yet connective conversations Wash had initiated at this table. Bester kept glancing surreptitiously at Wash, then shooting Mal meaningful looks. Zoe ignored them all, unhurriedly consuming her portion of the moon. Wash finished quickly, then left the table, taking his dishes to the kitchen sink, then heading forward. Maybe to his bunk, but Mal suspected the bridge was his goal. Zoe took a second helping, and Mal wished Wash had stuck around long enough to see that.

She had clean up, and Mal hung around as she washed dishes, taking a sponge and scrubbing _Serenity's_ scarred counter tops. They hadn't spoken a word to one another in many minutes, when Zoe, drying the casserole pan, said, "Could be he's dirt-sick."

"Sick?" Somewhat alarmed, Mal stopped his scrubbing to look at her. "Dirt-sick? They got somethin' in the dirt here?" Terraformed worlds did, sometimes, have something go awry with their soil or air or water. Was one of the many reasons boosting the crew's inoculations regularly was a good idea.

"Not _sick_ sick. It's like... a phobia. Dirt-sick. Land-crazy. Some spacers, they can't handle too much time on the ground. Had a cousin, had it bad." She stooped to put the dish away in a cupboard. "Couldn't even step off our ship onto a world. Was afraid he'd somehow get trapped there forever. Knew we'd never leave him, but." She latched the cupboard and stood, shrugging one shoulder. "Just couldn't take the chance."

"But Wash ain't a spacer. Not born and raised anyways."

She shrugged again. "Just sayin'." She swung away from him, heading toward the cargo bay, to some task she'd set herself. Tone a bit disparaging, she tossed over her shoulder, "More likely, he's just the kinda _naoshizhe_ that can't take bein' bored."

As that kinda _naoshizhe_ tended to be the bane of a sergeant's existence, Mal realized Wash might just have gotten another mark on the "Minus" side of Zoe's mental list. A bit troubling, as he didn't know as the man had any ticks at all on the "Plus" side. 'Cept maybe for bathing regularly.

~*~

* * *

_naoshizhe_ – troublemaker

_Ni tama de_ – screw his mother


	6. Day Six

Title: Sticking Point (6/9)

* * *

~Day 6~

Just as Mal climbed out of the hatch to his bunk that morning, Wash was coming down from the bridge. He stopped a couple steps from the bottom when Mal turned to look at him. He'd clearly spent the night in his chair again. And nothing about his chaotic hair or the dark smudges under his eyes suggested he'd slept well. After a few moments, Wash descended the rest of the way, ducking his head as he murmured, "Morning, Captain," then triggered open the hatch to his bunk to disappear below.

"Mornin'," Mal returned as the hatch hissed shut. Pursing his lips, he went to get breakfast. And again, it was disconcerting to find Bester up before him, already at the table, gnawing on a protein bar. Zoe there too made it somewhat less irregular, though the glance she gave him was more than usually jaundiced. He did note that her breakfast of choice was leftovers from last night, chopped up and refried in a rainbow confetti. As he walked by the table, nodding his good-mornings, he caught a whiff of fermented fish sauce. Hand to heaven, he never had been able to fathom why Zoe'd put that on her food voluntarily, at any time, let alone first thing in the morning. 'Course she'd never come to understand his appreciation for the mighty habanero. He reckoned it was all about what was served at the family table, growing up. Five minutes later, as he was bringing his plate and mug to the table, she was rising, a pointed look goading Bester to his feet as well.

"Thinkin' of heading into town," Zoe stated. She jerked her chin toward the mechanic. "Says he needs some zero gauge stranded wire. Thought I could take him over to the junk yard, see if they got what we need."

"Didn't we trade off a box of doohickies for some wiring with Monty a month or so back?" Mal queried, pulling out his chair and sitting down.

"Yeah," Bester replied with a grimace, "but that's all three gauge or higher. Could burn out when I run the power levels we need through that."

"Runnin' power suggests progress. We got progress, Bester?"

"Some, Mal," he replied, nodding and grinning. "Shit load easier t' get work done, without Washburne hangin' around."

"So we should be flyin' any time now. Like today."

"Aw, don't know about that, Mal." Bester, still grinning, gave a floppy shrug. "Haven't yet tracked down the glitch with the thrusters, and there's something dicey with one of the grav boots, don't know what. Prob'ly 'nother day, at least."

"Y' do know, Bester, that we ain't bein' paid for these days we're stuck in the dirt."

"Sure, Mal, I know that. But what can y' do?"

"Can get my engines fixed. That's what I pay you for. Provided, of course, that _I _get paid."

"Yeah, but." Bester shrugged again.

Mal contemplated shooting his mechanic. Just a little bit, mind you, maybe take off a toe, or graze some large, fleshy area, on the off-chance that might inspire a greater dedication to his task. Zoe must have seen something in his face, because she tugged Bester's coffee cup from his hand, saying, "I'll get this. You go get the mule an' trailer ready."

Blissfully ignorant of the tenor of his captain's wayward thoughts, Bester grinned and said, "Shiny!" then sauntered aft.

Zoe gave Mal a repressive look, and he sighed theatrically, complaining, "Y' never let me have any fun." She shook her head, then took the dishes into the kitchen, where she had them washed, dried, and put away before he had half his coffee drunk. As she headed below to join Bester, Mal said, "Looks likely we'll be around to get the other half of our protein order."

Zoe nodded, understanding his meaning, that their purse, rapidly approaching empty, needed to cover that deal first. "I'll put off buyin' that gold-plated toilet seat for the main head then."

"Appreciate that. 'Sides, I been thinkin', metal plating, even gold, it could get mighty cold. Kinda off-puttin', even alarmin', 'specially in the middle of the night."

She gave him one of her rare grins, and said over her shoulder as she stepped through the hatch, "Guess maybe we wanna rethink that particular upgrade."

"Guess we do," he replied, smiling broadly, his poker face breaking under the impact of her sudden impish warmth. He realized that, yeah, maybe they were pushing the limits of their schedule, in hitting Paquin. But still, the deal they were getting on the protein would keep them out of the red and fed, even if the Paquin meet fell through.

Wash stepped down into the galley as Mal spooned the last of his breakfast into his mouth. And Mal could see the man had made a real attempt to collect himself. His cheeks and chin were fresh shaved, his mustache trimmed and his damp hair combed ruthlessly into place. He had on the same flightsuit he'd put on after showering yesterday, but then, Mal'd been wearing the same trousers for a week and the same shirt for a couple days. He did have on clean underwear and socks, and he supposed it was the same for Wash, although he wasn't about to inquire. And when the man came up to him, all he could smell was shaving cream mixed with a hint of the sandalwood scent of the brand of cleansing gel Wash preferred.

Wash took a deep breath, then said, "About dinner last night, Capt'n. I'm sorry. I got a little carried away." And the guy's voice was steady and normal. But his shoulders were up and stiff, and he had an anxious tightness around his eyes.

Mal nodded slowly. "That y' did. But I guess I shoulda known better than to ask an imaginative man such as yourself to spend three hours workin' on a protein loaf." He leaned back, rocking his chair onto its hind legs, grinning. "Shoulda known the results would be... creative."

The tense lines of Wash's shoulders relaxed, and he laughed, Mal thought more out of relief than amusement. Wondered if maybe the man had been frettin' that he was gonna have some kinda sanction laid down on him.

Grinning, Wash went on to say, "Guess it was a good thing I didn't go with my first impulse, then, a three dimensional model of the Parliament Building on Londinum."

"I thank you for your restraint. Don't know as I could've stomached that for dinner, let alone breakfast leftovers." He tilted his head toward his empty plate.

"Could see where that might be hard to swallow." Then his smile faded a bit, his eyes shifting toward but not quite getting to pointing at the hatch aft to the engine room. He said, sounding a bit tentative, "I thought I'd rerun the deep diagnostic on the helm programming. But only if we're going to be grounded for another day. And if you don't want me working on-" He gestured aft, toward the engine room, a twitching flick of both hands.

"You go ahead an' run that diagnostic, Wash," Mal replied lightly, not allowing any of his own frustration to color his tone. "Looks like y' got the time."

The man's shoulders sagged, but for just a moment. Then he pulled them back, and with a nod, said, "I'll get right on it." He pivoted, heading forward.

"Wash."

He turned back. "Yeah, Captain?"

"Don't be thinkin' y' can avoid last night's leftovers. Get back here an' eat somethin'." Mal pointed at the kitchen. The guy opened his mouth, maybe to protest that he wasn't hungry, which was as may be. But a body needed fueling, and Mal wasn't about to let Wash neglect that. Plus, it was only right that he take on his fair share of the remaining casserole.

Perceiving that arguing would be useless by the steadiness of Mal's pointing finger, Wash closed his mouth, smiling ruefully. "_Jong mai duh mai_. Or in my case, sow protein loaf, reap protein loaf."

Zoe and Bester were back before noon, ten meters of zero gauge wiring on the mule's trailer. Zoe immediately hustled Bester and the cable into the engine room, and Bester's sulkiness and the tight set of Zoe's lips suggested to Mal that their trip into town hadn't run completely smooth. But Zoe offered no particulars, so he didn't press. He spent the rest of his day cycling slowly between the cargo bay, the engine room, the bridge, and then around again. Being in the bay was fine, just him and Zoe working on any one of the many tasks running a freight vessel imposed upon them. The engine room was aggravating, 'cuz while it always seemed like meaningful activity was taking place – panels open, tools being loudly used, more grease streaking Bester's bare torso with every visit – nothing actually ever changed. It was always, "Nope, sorry, Mal," followed by a stream of tech talk Mal could make neither head nor tail of.

Heading up to the bridge was equally disheartening. Not 'cuz he thought Wash wasn't doing his bit, 'cuz he'd come up the stairs, hearing the sound of Wash's fingers tappity-tapping on the navsats keyboard, and when he got there, lines of numbers and symbols would be reeling upward on the screen, which, honestly, he understood even less than Bester's spiels. But every time he entered the bridge, Wash's eyes – wide, hopeful, increasingly bloodshot – would swing to him, and he'd have to shake his head and say, "Nothin' new." And the man would duck his head a moment, then nod, before turning away, nimble fingers again flicking over his board.

Then, about an hour before dinner, on another restless round through his ship, Mal came up into the galley from the bay, hoping for but not expecting a positive report from Bester. And there he found Wash, one shoulder on the edge of the aft hatch to the corridor to the engine room, leaning there, head bowed, expression blank yet somehow intent. As though he were listening with absolute concentration. He was so focused, in fact, that Mal was just a pace away before Wash noticed him, starting upright, chagrin twitching over his face before he composed himself, trying for a casual, "Hey, Captain."

"What's up, Wash?"

"I- Well, I've finished running the diagnostic. And I just thought maybe I should... It's awful quiet back there, Mal. Maybe I should go back and give him a hand."

"Nope," Mal replied, making a sudden decision.

"I won't say a word, I promise," Wash said in a rush, eyes wide and earnest. "I'll just pass him tools. Run errands." Smiling weakly, he tried for a quip. "Mop his sweaty brow."

"Nope." Mal set a hand on his shoulder, steering him toward the stairs to the cargo bay and the main hatch. "You're comin' with me."

"Well, where are we going?"

"Anywhere not here."

By the time the two of them had reached the cargo bay, Mal had a plan, of which he informed Zoe as they passed by her on the way to the front hatch.

"We're gonna grab a bite an' a couple beers in town, Zoe. Wash's been starin' at his screen all day, looks to be goin' cross-eyed, and he ain't had any downtime as yet."

"Yes, sir," she replied, giving him a neutral nod before going back to her manifest clipboard.

Wash slowed for a few paces, looking back at her, then trotted forward, catching up with Mal on the ramp. "Maybe Zoe'd like to come. She deserves a break, too."

Mal shook his head, striding on. "Need her to keep an eye on Bester."

Wash glanced over his shoulder, brows knit as he nibbled on the corner of his mustache, clearly torn between his consideration of Zoe and his need for Bester to complete his repairs. Need won and he silently matched his gait to Mal's. He did, however, look back every tenth step or so, a tiny frown compressing his face.

A few hundred meters down the path laid by the two trucks, Mal finally stated, "She ain't goin' anywhere without you."

"What?" Wash stared at him, eyes round and a little spooked looking.

"_Serenity_. She needs you to get back aloft. And 'sides, ain't no way in hell she'll leave without _me_."

Wash blinked a couple times, then smiled, saying, "True that." He cast a final glance back, then turned his face forward, murmuring so low that Mal barely caught it, "That's true."

Took about twenty minutes to walk to town, and they could've taken the mule. But Mal figured the exercise would do them both good, and besides, it saved on petrol. Mal was prepared to go along with Wash's love of chat as they strolled, only in part to give the guy an outlet. Truth was, Wash listened as well as he talked, and Mal did enjoy spinning a tale. Almost as much as Zoe did, if you could just get her started, although that was no easy task.

But Wash hiked along in silence, following his two long shadows sliding along ahead of him, one cast by the far off Sun, the other by Wyoming's principal, Heinlein, both sinking below the horizon behind them. Was kinda peaceful and companionable, both looking up together to follow the line of cawing crows winging toward their evening perches, or swiveling their heads to listen to the first sweet, tentative warbles of some night bird. Wash did jump to one side when they startled a rabbit from between the field's furrows, yellow dust spurting from beneath its hind feet as it darted off. Mal didn't chuckle over Wash's alarm until he did first.

Their feet found the road, dirt most of the way, turning to asphalt just in time to be the town's main street. Though the shops were dark and there were no street lamps, Heinlein, even at just a sinking razor thin blue crescent, cast enough light for them to easily see their way. The windows of the sheriff's office glowed a warm gold, as did the windows and open door of the bar. Mal led Wash to the latter establishment, onto the porch, and then up the half-step inside. He made a quick scan of the room on his way to the bar. He figured maybe they'd arrived ahead of most of the evening's business, as the only patrons were the three raggedy men at their usual corner table.

"Evenin', ma'am." Mal nodded politely to the watchful barkeep before turning to his pilot. "A pale good by you, Wash? Can attest that it's quite fine."

Wash turned his gaze, which had been roaming curiously about the place, to the woman behind the bar to assert, "A pale is perfect."

"Two pints, then. And are y' servin' dinner?"

"Yep. Chashao bao. Steamed cabbage on the side."

Wash made a little noise through his nose, might have been a whimper, which Mal interpreted as thumbs up for the special. "Two of those as well, please."

Mal couldn't watch Wash eat his dinner – fluffy dumplings steamed around sweet and spicy pork – 'cuz his ecstatic expression was too close to what a fella's sex face might be like. And anyway, couldn't be too sure about the lines his own face were set in, so probably best just keep his eyes on his own plate and enjoy.

He came up for air about fifteen minutes later to the sound of Wash's sated sigh and the click of his chopsticks as he set them across his plate. As he watched, his pilot drained the last inch from his glass, then set it down with a gentle, reverent burp.

"Okay, then?" Mal asked.

"Yep."

"Round of darts?"

"Sure."

Mal nodded at the barkeep's inquiring lift of one brow, and he and Wash waited a moment as she refilled their pints. Carefully picking up the brimming glasses, they abandoned their spots at the bar to saunter over to the dartboard. Mal was gonna propose that they play for coin but the tight cluster Wash threw while testing his darts' balance quickly stifled that notion. Hell, he was already paying – well, _Serenity's_ slush fund was – for the guy's drinks and dinner. No need to indulge him further.

More customers wandered in as they played, and while Mal's eyes flicked to the door at each newcomer's entry, it was more reflex than active wariness. Wyoming might be down on its luck and Rim, but it was country-Rim, not crazy-Rim. He nodded at Mr. Song upon his arrival, and the man returned his nod solemnly before picking up a drink at the bar, then joining two men at one of the largish round tables. Clearly father and his barely adult son, the elder wore grease-stained mechanic's coveralls, while the younger sported a puffy black eye. That eye was turned rather sullenly upon his bottle of orange pop.

Mal exchanged nods with Sheriff Huan as well when he came through the door a short while later. The lawman left it at that, though, going on to collect himself a pint at the bar, and then joining Song and the two other men at their table. He apparently said something joshing to the youngster, 'cuz that individual ducked his head, grinning sheepishly, while to two older men chuckled.

While Wash was tugging his darts free, Mal tilted the last swallow of his ale into his mouth, congratulating himself again for not suggesting they play for money. It had become a forgone conclusion that Wash was gonna whip him pretty damn soundly, unless the man suddenly lost all feeling in both hands ('cuz he'd been alternating between his left and his right, with no discernible loss of accuracy) or went abruptly blind. Wash turned away from the board, and Mal held up his empty, already heading toward the bar, and Wash gave him a little nod. Mal came back with two pints, setting the second down next to the half-full one Wash was still working on.

The man eyed it askance, saying, "I do believe you are attempting to affect the outcome of this game by devious means, Captain."

"Hell, no, ain't devious. Just flat out-right aimin' to get you drunk. Looks like the only chance I got to win."

"Aw, no point. I just look at the two dartboards, calculate the geometric mean between the areas I wanna hit, and let fly. Works every time."

"Don't make me regret hirin' you on."

Wash pursed his lips, knotting his brows in mock-concern. "Could try throwin' with my eyes closed."

"Don't reckon that'd help."

"Probably not," Wash admitted, ducking his head modestly.

"So drink your beer."

"Aye aye, Captain."

Wash was throwing when Sullivan walked in, and this time Mal did more than nod. He smiled outright, lifting his hand in greeting, and she smiled right back as she headed straight for them. Wash tossed his last dart, glancing around to see who Mal had been waving to. The man's face lit right up when he saw her, and Mal let himself feel the smugness of a scheme well schemed. He took Sullivan's offered hand, very glad to see her, saying, "Ms. Sullivan," in response to her "Captain Reynolds." She then took Wash's hand, holding onto it a bit and saying, "Wash" with a deeper smile than she'd offered Mal.

"Hey, Lara," he replied, and he was clearly happier to see her than even Mal was.

"Have to say I'm mighty pleased to see you, Ms. Sullivan," Mal declared, affecting exaggerated relief. "Seems my pilot here has no sense of propriety, and is thumpin' me soundly at this here game. Care to save my captainy pride, and take over for me?" He tilted his head toward the table Huan and Song occupied. "There's some folks over there I'd like to have a word with."

"Glad to be of service, Cap'n."

"Thank you kindly. I'm gonna get this topped off. Can I get you somethin'?"

"A glass of **Ngkapei** would be welcome."

"Comin' up." He looked to his pilot. "Wash?"

Wash's eyes slid to his barely sipped third pint. "No, I'm good."

Mal fetched Sullivan her wine, then committed a strategic withdrawal, refilled pint in hand, approaching the sheriff's table. Its occupants looked up at his arrival, and he offered them a genial smile.

"Sheriff Huan, Mr. Song. Good evenin'."

"Evening, Captain Reynolds. Care to sit with us?"

"Would be a pleasure, Sheriff." He pulled back a free chair, inclining his head toward Song, then turning his attention to the men he didn't yet know.

The sheriff, playing host, said, "You know Mr. Song. Allow me to introduce Leland Frye." The older man offered his hand, and Mal took it, noting the heavy calluses and the careful power of his grip. Probably in his mid-forties, his genial face was already heavily lined. "And his son, Caspar." Mal offered his hand to the younger Frye, who took it, looking surprised but gratified to be included in this adult male ritual. In his late teens, his face was shaped in the same genial roundness as his pa's, but he was already taller, and far leaner, than his old man. His left eye sported a fine shiner, aging to lovely shades of green and yellow around the edges. Remembering a scrap of conversation from the first time he'd met Huan, Mal gathered that this was the "young Frye" who he'd had cooling in lock-up. The sheriff went on, "Leland owns our machine shop and sees to our salvage yard across from the space port." He tilted a hand toward Mal. "Gentlemen, this is Captain Malcolm Reynolds, off the ship set in Duo's field."

The Fryes nodded their greetings, then the elder asked, pointing with his chin toward Wash, "That your man, Captain Reynolds?"

Mal glanced across the room, where Wash was watching Sullivan take careful aim at the dartboard. "My pilot, yeah. Goes by Wash."

The younger Frye interjected, "He ain't the fella come by the yard today, Pop."

"That woulda been my mechanic, Bester," Mal said, now remembering that Zoe hadn't been perfectly cheerful when the two of them had returned to _Serenity_ that morning. "Came into town with my first mate, Zoe Alleyne, this morning. Was there a problem?"

The youngster looked over at him, and he took on the expression that lots of men did, when talking about Zoe, a mix of caution and masculine appreciation. "No. No, sir, no problem. That first mate of yours, Miss Alleyne? Don't imagine many problems dare come up, when she's around."

Mal chuckled. "You got that right." And he proceeded to tell them a little tale, one to break the ice, one set in the last few months, about Zoe getting the better of a slaving _lao chien_ off Bernadette. Wasn't the best Zoe-tale he had, but he didn't tell war stories if he wasn't absolutely sure where all his audience stood on that Event. Plus, with his best Zoe-stories, he had to make sure those listening had strong stomachs and weren't easily shocked. He got an appreciative laugh, 'cuz everyone this far out liked a story about putting one over a Core suit, and then was able to ease back in his chair and just listen to the other men talk, nodding and adding supportive grunts.

The bar continued to have in-coming and out-going, and Mal's eyes flicked automatically toward every movement. The entrance of a woman, vaguely familiar, engaged his eye. She paused a moment, scanning the room, and that gave him enough time to recollect where he'd seen her before. At lunch, the first day they'd been down, sitting across from Sullivan. Dark, lean, even wiry, about a head shorter than Lara. But she had that same competent, don't-get-in-my-face air about her, and Mal was pretty gorram sure she'd seen action of the fire-fight kind. She spotted Sullivan immediately, playing darts with Wash. The wary set of her features eased, her mouth curving into a joy-filled smile, and she made right for them.

Now, Mal had to admit to a little slump to his morale right then. 'Cuz truth be told, he'd been kinda counting on Sullivan taking Wash home and having her way with him. Just in the interest of knocking the man's own morale up a notch and untangling some nerves that had become a little too tightly wound. The addition of a third-wheel sort of friend made that hope of his a little more problematic.

And then Mal felt his brows go up as the situation got just a little more awkward. The dark woman came up, to stand right next to Sullivan, one hand coming up to rest possessively in the small of her back. She said something, looking Wash right in the eye, and Sullivan became very still. For a moment, so did Wash. But then he grinned, his face full of mischief as he replied, and after a second both women laughed, the dark woman tossing her head back in delight. Her hand dropped off of Sullivan's waist and she went to the bar to place an order. In moments, she came back to the dart game, three double shots of whiskey held in the triangle of her two hands.

Mal tried to keep the next hour's worth of attention fixed on the men around the table with him and their conversation. But he had to admit Wash's dart game was a tad more interesting than rambling speculations about the success of next season's soybean crop. Not that he could hear a word of what the man and the two women exchanged among themselves. But there was a lot of shared laughter, and by their second round of whiskey the women's hands had gotten a little wandersome, lighting down casually on Wash's shoulders, back, hips. His own hands were behaving themselves perfectly, touching only his darts and shot glass. But Mal didn't think he minded. All the alcohol might have put the pink in his cheeks, but he didn't think it was responsible for the pleased curl of his lips.

Mal glanced over as the dark woman went to the bar for their fourth round. Wash was toeing the line, lower lip between his teeth, squinting against his inebriation as he took aim at the dartboard. Sullivan suddenly slid in front of him, and he took a step back, brows lifting. Her right hand came up, the steel curve hooking the V at the throat of Wash's suit. He froze, eyes roaming over her face, and her hand lifted, metal caressing his cheekbone. His lips parted, and the color in his face rose. The dark woman had caught the interaction, and she moved away from the bar, the shots she'd ordered still on its wooden surface. Her hands dropped, one onto Sullivan's hip and the other on Wash's. Then the pilot's eyes flicked toward Mal.

In that instant it came to Mal that Wash had always been rather reticent about his sexual proclivities, and that maybe he was overly-conscious of his captain being in the same room as him and his potential bed-partners. Mal stood, saying, "Do please excuse me, gentlemen. Time for me to say good-night." As he moved toward the door, he nodded to the other's courteous farewells. Just over the threshold, he cast a glance over his shoulder.

And Wash was backing away from the women, face flushed full of lust and of apology as he looked back and forth between them and his captain on the porch. Whatever he was saying had Sullivan's brows arching up and her friend's going down, and when he turned away, Sullivan shook her head, laughing. The dark woman simply rolled her eyes, putting a fist on one hip, the very picture of feminine exasperation.

And the man was rattling on as he came through the door, a little uncertain with his consonants, "Hey, Mal, almos' missed ya leavin'. Ya shoulda caught my eye– Whoops!" He stumbled, missing the half-step down to the porch in the dark. Mal caught him, one hand on his bicep, the other in the middle of his back, steadying him as he untangled his feet. The amount of tension he found in the man, as drunk as he was, astonished him, taut muscles practically quivering under his hands.

He made himself smile, to keep his tone easy. "Hey, now, Wash. Looked like you was havin' fun, made yourself some friends. Ain't breakin' curfew." He chuckled deliberately. "Fact is, we got no curfew t' break. Stay out late as you please." He pushed on Wash's shoulder, turning him back around to the bar's door. "Hell, don't need to see y' shipside 'til after breakfast. Lunch even." Maybe even dinnertime, but he didn't say so aloud. Didn't want to give even the slightest hint Wash wasn't welcome on the ship. If he did have that land-craziness Zoe'd mentioned, that notion might just make him worse.

Wash pulled away from him, out of his grip, his unsteady feet pivoting him to point in _Serenity's_ direction. "Nah, I'm good, I'm fine, had enough," he insisted, shuffling forward, finding the edge of the porch in the dark and stepping cautiously down onto the street. "More than more 'n enough." He giggled as he discovered just how loose-jointed his knees were, and repeated, "More 'n more 'n enough."

Mal frowned after him. As strongly as he believed it would be in the best interests of all concerned, including Sullivan and her friend, he reckoned ordering the man to get back into that bar, to go home with those women, and to get well and thoroughly laid would be overstepping the line of his captainy authority. Sighing, he took off after his pilot, to walk beside him, an occasional touch on Wash's elbow keeping his weaving steps on track.

Mal was relieved they didn't run across Zoe on their way through the ship toward their bunks. Wash didn't need yet another black mark in her book. When Mal slowed at the hatch to his pilot's bunk, Wash kept going, past it, to haul himself up the stairs to the bridge, grip tight on the handrails.

"Wash," Mal called after him. "Time to call it a night."

"'S okay," he replied, speaking to his feet as he set each one over-precisely on each step. "Jus– just gonna check. All the systems. Gotta check 'em."

Mal let him go. Knew he'd probably spend the night in his chair again. Didn't hurt anything, though, and maybe the drink would help him rest easy.

~*~

* * *

_Jong mai duh mai._ – Sow wheat, receive wheat.

_lao chien_ – con man


	7. Day Seven

Title: Sticking Point (7/9)

* * *

~Day 7~

"He's hungover," Zoe stated flatly, cold gaze fixed on the man at the table, hunched over a cup of coffee. Mal followed Zoe's look from where they worked in the kitchen, putting themselves together plates of breakfast. He had to admit Wash was looking pretty seedy. More pasty than pale, red-eyed and bristle-chinned, the hair on both his head and upper lip needing a comb, given to wincing at the clatter of utensils and dishes.

Zoe's disparaging observation put Mal in the odd position of defending his pilot's personal habits to his X.O. "The drink was my idea, Zo'. Thought he could maybe use blowing off a little steam."

"Surprised y' didn't acquire him a little company to go with that drink. In the interest of steam-blowin'."

"Didn't need help from me in that area," Mal reported, with a hitch of one shoulder. "Just gave him room to maneuver an' he had _two_ very willin' ladies buyin' him drinks by the end of the evenin'."

She arched a skeptical brow. "Heard you come in, was only twenty-two hundred. He must be bunny-quick to go through two that early."

A tad scandalized she'd be bending her thoughts toward Wash's sexual prowess, let alone discussing it, Mal huffed an impatient breath. "Don't have any notion as to the nature or quality of his bedroom habits, Zoe, nor do I care to speculate," he snapped. "How-some-ever, fact is he declined their invitation and came back ship-side with me."

Both her brows went up at that. "Hm," she said, then took her plate and mug to the table, setting both down rather more loudly than necessary. Wash flinched at the noise, then, as the smell of Zoe's scrambled protein, laced with fish sauce, drifted his way, he cast a horrified look at her food, clamping a hand over his mouth. Then, with an anguished glance at Zoe, he bolted out of his chair and toward the bridge, clutching his coffee cup.

She watched him go, placidly spooning protein into her mouth. And Mal had to admit her actions irked him some. While he didn't expect her to fall in love with the guy, it would be nice if she'd warm up to him, at least a tad. Wash was _feng le_, no question. Might actually be officially so, considering his current behaviors. But gorram it, Tanaka had been right, he was a damn fine pilot. Mal'd told Zoe so, after he'd set the crippled shuttle down on Ita. And after the landing he'd made just this last week, he didn't get why she wouldn't cut him some slack, just on account of the excellent piloting. During the war, she'd always given their more talented soldiers a little more leeway, in the sanity area. Wasn't sure what was driving her to actively torment the man.

One benefit of Wash's pounding head and queasy stomach – as far as Mal was concerned – was that he took to the bridge like a sick animal taking to its den. So, except for checking in on the guy every now and then, politely ignoring his decrepitude, and keeping his steps light and spoken words low-key yet cheerful, Mal didn't have to worry about him much, as Bester (or even Zoe) had no reason to step on the downed _Serenity's_ bridge. And he had to give the man points, in as the day wore on and his condition improved, Wash assigned himself the task of fine-tuning their communication array.

That afternoon a shaggy kid rode up bareback on an equally shaggy pony, to hand deliver an elegantly scribed note from Mrs. MacGregor, owner of the sundries store, letting him know she'd filled the rest of his order. Would he care to have it delivered this afternoon? He wondered why she hadn't simply waved, but then noted the wide-eyed, wordless curiosity with which the boy studied _Serenity_, and figured maybe grandma had given him this chore as a treat. Mal dug a pencil stub out of a pocket and replied on the back of the note: "Will be by later this afternoon to pick up the goods myself. Thank you kindly, Malcolm Reynolds."

He handed the note back to the silent boy, who took it, put it in the front pocket of his shabby shirt, then wheeled the pony around on her bitless halter, prodding heels urging her into a canter. Mal watched him go, recalling the countless hours of his youth spent on a horse's back. When he could no longer see the pair, he turned to make his way to the _Serenity's_ bridge.

There he discovered the comm system closed up and fastened down, its battered metal panels meticulously wiped free of fingerprints. And Wash standing idle, staring out the front screen, absently twisting the polishing cloth through restless fingers. Mal came up beside him, thinking maybe the young rider had caught his attention. But no, the fields were empty now, yellowish tan hazing to green in the distance. Equally empty pale blue sky. Not a cloud. Not even a bird. Mal had noticed Wash liked watching birds.

He turned his head, and found himself caught by Wash's unblinking eyes. They fixed on his for a long moment before his pilot asked, "Bester got it done?" And Mal well knew that Wash already knew the answer, but couldn't squash the compulsion that made him ask anyway.

"Nope." He pivoted away, moving toward the stairs, saying, "Go hitch the trailer onto the mule. Got a load to pick up in town." When he got to his bunk, he triggered it open, climbing down to get his coat. Through the still open hatch, he heard the soft tread of Wash's deck shoes go past, heading aft. He spent a couple minutes sprucing up at his sink, then took himself down to the cargo bay. Wash had the mule wheeled up to the top of the ramp, and was finishing up fastening the trailer to its hitch.

"You drive," Mal ordered as he approached, gesturing toward the ATV.

Wash straightened, brows lifting. "I'm going?"

"Looks like. Unless y' got something better to do."

Wash waved an airy hand toward the engine room. "Could go up, help Bester."

Mal stared at him a moment, then grinned. "Your mama ever call you 'pig-headed'?"

Wash reared back a bit, blinking, then quirked him an answering smile. "Hell, no. She called me her 'sun-shiny, bright-beaming boy.'" He donned a prim, lofty expression, fingertips on his heart. "I never gave her a moment's trouble."

Mal grandly snorted his dubiousity, then pointed again at the mule. "You're driving, Sunshine."

Wash snorted back, then took hold of the mule's handlebars, slinging his leg over its seat, saying, "Yes, Mother." As he started the engine, Mal settled in behind him, dragging the tails of his coat into his lap so they wouldn't get caught in the rear wheels. Fella only needed to have that happen once to be wary ever after.

Wash eased them down the ramp, careful not to let the trailer jerk them around or to hit the dirt at the base of the ramp too hard. Could be 'cuz he was driving his captain. Could be 'cuz of his own lingering headache.

"Where we goin'?" he asked over the engine noise, pushing them at a steady clip through the soft earth of the field.

Mal leaned forward to say in his ear, "Sundry store, t' pick up some supplies I ordered, protein and the like."

They rolled on a bit before Wash called back, "Does that order include fish sauce?"

Grinning, Mal replied, "Zoe wants fish sauce, she can buy it her own self. 'Sides, her favorite brand only comes off Newhall."

After a moment, Wash bobbed his head. "Okay then. Can steer my way around Newhall easy enough."

Mal chuckled and decided not to let Wash know upon which moon he bought his precious habanero paste.

Hitting the edge of asphalt that marked the beginning of the town's proper street, Mal pointed over Wash's shoulder at the sundry store's front. Pulling up to it, Wash cut the engine, then waited for Mal to dismount before getting off himself.

The next half hour was spent lugging cases out of the shop, Wash hoisting as many as Mal, making sure their weight was balanced out carefully on the trailer. A few genial queries from Mrs. MacGregor had Wash rising above the fading malaise of his hangover to take on his role of entertainer, spinning out a tale of fancy flying and crazy cargo which had her gasping and giggling. Her grandson, still silent, followed closely behind Wash's heels, back and forth out of the shop, listening intently, hauling as many boxes as his young strength could handle.

As Mal paid the bill, Wash tightened the cargo net around their packages, telling the kid to give all the tie-downs a good tug to make sure they were secure. Mal handing the boy a couple two-bit coins got his first words from him, a murmured "Thank you, Captain."

Clearly pleased by the windfall of _Serenity's_ business, Mrs. MacGregor closed their deal by slipping a peppermint stick into each of their front pockets. Then she gathered up her grandson, clucking about dinner soon to be on the table, and locked up her shop for the evening. Mal watched her and the lad head down the street into the deepening twilight, before turning and walking in the other direction. This caught Wash, preparing to get mounted up and back to the ship, by surprise, and it took him a moment to pull away from the vehicle to go trotting after Mal.

"Um," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at their ladened mule when he caught up.

"Safe enough, I reckon," Mal replied, as he stepped up onto the porch stretching before the entrance of the bar. There Wash balked, halting on the street.

"I don't know if this is a good idea, Captain."

Mal paused, one foot up on the porch, the other on asphalt, to peer questioningly at his pilot.

"Mal, I just can't." Wash adopted a wide-eyed, comically overly earnest expression. "I'll fess up. I'm a complete and utter light-weight. Many, many people, from one end of the the 'verse to the other, much to my virtue's chagrin, have discovered I'm an extremely cheap date. And, if I drink even a fraction as much tonight as I did last night, I'll probably barf all over your boots."

Mal laughed, reaching out to slap Wash's shoulder. "So we'll drink pop. Maybe they got a ginger ale. My ma swore by ginger to settle a stomach."

"Really? Mine did too."

"Sure enough? So ginger ale or maybe tea, and after that – know y' haven't eaten all day – your innards might be up for what they got on special."

Wash licked his lips, wavering, clearly at that stage of crapulous recovery where a person's body craved nutrients while their stomach maintained a justifiable wariness.

Mal then ventured tentatively, not exactly sure where Wash felt he'd left things with Sullivan the night before, "Could be Lara'll turn up."

Wash's eyes flickered, his expressions obscure behind his lush mustache, although Mal caught something like need and something like shame and a flash of something he didn't have a name for, wild and dark.

"Could be she will," Wash replied, pushing past him, up onto the porch and through the doors. Mal looked after his back for a moment, wondering when his dinosaur-playing pilot had got so complicated, before following him in up to the bar.

They followed the pattern they'd set the night before, although they had ginger ale in their pint glasses, and Wash approached his plate of stir-fry slowly and cautiously. And when they got around to playing darts, it was Wash watching the door. On the lookout for Sullivan, Mal was sure.

They were a half-hour or so into their game when they heard it. Wash understood what it was before Mal did, the last dart he threw still quivering in the board as he bolted out the door into the street. Mal joined him there, his own darts still in his hand, as he peered up into the neon blue night, following his pilot's gaze. Above them, a ship, a mid-sized transport by the bulk of her dark silhouette, sank slowly toward the port at the end of the street, her red and green running lights flashing rhythmically. Other bar customers followed them out, voices lifted in excited conjecture.

They watched her touch down, a tad gracelessly to Mal's ever more knowing eye. Although they were too far away to read the ship's chop on the bow in the dim light, Wash stated, "That's the _Golden Dawn_."

While Mal didn't recognize her by configuration, he did know her name once he heard it, and so, her captain. "Jasper Renshaw's boat."

"Yeah, yeah, Renshaw!" Wash nodded his recognition of the man's name. "He was pretty hot for me to sign on with him a few months ago."

Mal indulged his curiosity, asking a question he'd held onto for months. "Why didn't you?"

Wash shrugged. "Well, y' know. _Serenity_." Then he waved a dismissive hand toward the landing ship, the sound of her pods winding down carrying easily up the street. "_Dawn's_ all right as Gongnuis go. But that whole class is like flyin' a brick." He paused a moment, then continued, voice soft with speculation, "Of course, she is, currently, a _flying_ brick."

Mal shot him a look, not liking the direction his thoughts seemed to be wandering. Putting a hand on Wash's shoulder, he said, "_Serenity_ will be flying, any time now."

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Wash slanted him a sideways glance. "Well. Yeah. 'Course she will."

Using his grip on Wash's shoulder, he applied judicious pressure, aiming him back into the bar. "Let's finish our game."

Wash nodded, allowing himself to be steered back inside. He kept his eyes on the _Golden Dawn_, though, until the very last moment he stepped through the door.

Mal realized that a functioning ship just a few hundred meters down the street must have been looming large in Wash's mind. His next round of darts landed all over the board, one even bouncing off the metal rim. And the guy didn't even seem to notice. And very shortly after that, Mal realized that he probably should have abandoned the game altogether and headed back to _Serenity._ Because the door to the bar swung open and Renshaw stepped through, followed by a passel of crew. The man's eyes lit first thing on Wash, and with a laugh that filled the whole room, he headed straight for him, arms outstretched. And Wash was looking pleased and flustered at the same time, grinning and blushing.

Mal had actually met Jasper Renshaw – bald as an egg, stocky, with broad shoulders that made him appear shorter than he was – during the war, twice. Man had never signed up, on either side, though he'd only ever run goods for the Independents and sometimes a neutral world caught up in the war's chaos. Didn't make his business any less risky, though, as more than a few of those free-wheeling entrepreneurs, when snagged by the _Tze Fu_, were convicted and even executed on smuggling and treason charges. Still, Mal could never bring himself to much like those in Renshaw's line of work. While Renshaw himself had never gouged, charging far more than his goods were worth, the same couldn't be said of all those running supplies to the troops, especially during those last, desperate days. And Renshaw had always expected to be paid, in full and up front, even when his clients were near naked, starving, and short on cash.

It was with a certain measure of self-aware irony that Mal had to acknowledge he was in much the same line of business these days as Renshaw had been then, and that he certainly expected to be paid for the jobs he did, no matter what. This didn't lessen the unease he felt as the man barreled down on his pilot, to sling an arm over his shoulders and exclaim, "Washburne! Good to see ya, son." He fixed his pale brown, almost yellow, eyes on Mal, and jerked his chin in his direction. "How's this _buxiubianfu_ _hun dan_ treatin' you?"

"Good, Captain Renshaw. Real good." Wash shot Mal a look, an apology for talking about him behind his back right in front of him.

"Where's that first mate of his? She here?" Renshaw cast his gaze about, perhaps a bit warily. On not seeing her, he went on, "Why, I could see why a fella might sign on his boat just to get a gander at her on a daily basis. She treatin' y' good too?"

"She's... back on the ship. And, and she's a great XO. A guy always knows exactly where he stands with her." Mal couldn't help but be impressed by this extremely diplomatic assertion on Wash's part.

"So what's this with you sittin' out there in the dirt? Heard some wave-chatter you'd been grounded. Was planning to cruise this area anyway, but that chatter led me to light down, see if we could help out in any way."

"Naw," Mal broke in. "Was just a simple glitch. And now I got my mechanic doing some overdue maintenance. We ain't grounded. Just takin' some needed down-time."

"Sure, Reynolds," Renshaw said, his agreeableness somehow calling to question the seriousness of his ship's troubles. "Hey, Wash, you know my crew, right?" He slid his hand across Wash's shoulder to palm the back of his neck, pointing his attention to the rest of Renshaw's people. He ran through a quick introduction of them all; his XO, a mechanic, a couple brawny security folk, one female, one male, and a cook, all of them looking sleek, clean, dressed in _shing so_ flash, all of them except Renshaw sporting expensive jewelery.

"And my pilot, Reece," Renshaw finished up, gesturing to a tall guy in a near-military tailored flight-suit, a fat, gold ring dangling from his left earlobe. "And that's it. Runnin' one berth short, as I'm still looking to fill that co-pilot's seat. Folks, this is Washburne." He reached out to poke his pilot with one stiff finger. "Know _you_ heard of him, Reece. The fellow who did that run off Athens in aught-seven, the guy who Crazy Ivaned himself out that ambush with the destroyer."

"Oh!" The man's eyes widened. "_That_ Washburne!" He extended his hand to Wash, who took it tentatively. "Never actually met anyone came out alive after trying that maneuver."

"Oh. Well." Wash shrugged. "Just need the right ship, with the right people in the engine room."

Mal, of course, now intensely curious as to what a "Crazy Ivan" might be, still wasn't about to ask, to expose his ignorance. Plus, he was getting a tad more curious about what his pilot had been up to during the war. Man never said, and Mal had taken Tanaka's raves on faith. (Wash's leg-long recommendations would have meant nothing without that.) Was true that Tanaka's loyalties lay with the space between worlds rather than to any particular planet itself. Same as Zoe, in a way, as her first loyalties had been to a ship and the family on it, and their freedom to fly and do business as they pleased. Until an Alliance cruiser had gutted that ship, extinguishing all five generations of her family, leaving only her, by freak chance, alive. And alone.

All that didn't matter though. Whatever their reasons for joining the Independents, they'd been _against_ the Alliance. And Mal knew Tanaka would never vouch for a guy who'd officially signed up with the Purple Bellies. Mal _had_ wondered if Wash had run supplies for the Alliance as a civilian, never actually joining their space force. He had preferred not to know, if that were the case. But it was kinda looking like maybe he'd gone down the wrong track there, because the only destroyers that had orbited Athens in '07 had belonged to the Alliance.

"Yeah, so, like I said, we're all full up, nice and cozy. 'Cept for that co-pilot's slot." Renshaw used his hand on the back of Wash's neck to steer him toward the bar, pulling him away from the dart game. "Gonna order a round. Whatcha drinkin', Wash?" Renshaw's crew shifted in behind him, a screen between Mal and their captain.

And Mal's pilot.

He felt a sudden sharp pang of possessiveness, one that surprised him, as the only person he'd ever felt that emotion for was a girl he'd gotten serious about before the war. And Zoe, actually, those times the brass had tried to promote her out of his unit. And he figured it was like that. Just like Zoe'd been _his_ corporal, Wash was _his_ pilot, and he'd be good and gorrammed before he'd allow someone to abscond with one of his people. He came to the conclusion he might have to put another name on his "Looking To Get Himself Shot" list.

The knot moving toward the bar suddenly stopped, Wash having planted his feet, forcing the _Golden Dawn's_ people to slide to either side of him and their boss. "Ah, no, thanks, Captain." Wash turned to face Renshaw with a lopsided smile, shrugging one shoulder. And this eased him smoothly out from under the man's hand. "Kinda overdid it last night." Wash flicked a quick glance at Mal, and that, plus the stiff set of his stance, told Mal Wash knew what was up, that these were Renshaw's opening moves in trying to woo the pilot away from Mal's boat.

"Yeah?" Renshaw replied. "Well, good for you for cuttin' back, then. How 'bout a soda?" With an approving smile, his hand came back up onto Wash's shoulder, turning him again away from Mal, toward the bar. And Wash, his resistance weakening, allowed himself to be shifted.

Not about to let Renshaw have his way with his man, 'specially not right before his very eyes, Mal moved in, cutting between the cook and the gunman. He set his own hand on Wash's other shoulder, which again brought the pilot to a halt, rounded eyes swiveling to meet Mal's.

Mal made himself grin, to say apologetically, "Sorry t' cut the evenin' short, Wash, but we got a load of supplies to see to."

"Oh. Ah. That's right." Wash let the weight of Mal's hand pull him a half step toward him, as he said in all sincerity, "Sorry, Captain Renshaw. Gonna have to pass on that soda."

"Catch ya later then, Washburne," he replied jovially, releasing Wash's shoulder. He cut a sly look at Mal, then smiling, said, "I'll be in touch."

Wash grinned, nodding, lifting a hand in silent goodbye to the rest of _Golden Dawn's_ crew as Mal steered him toward the exit.

And as they stepped out, Mal stifled a curse, 'cuz Sullivan was just setting her foot onto the porch. They all three of them froze, her dark green eyes going wide. Wash made a kinda fizzing noise, lots like the lit fuses on the black powder Mal used to blow tree stumps with on the ranch. And he wanted nothing better than to shove the man into Sullivan's arms and hightail it for _Serenity_. If he coulda been sure she would just sweep Wash up and make off with him, he woulda done it.

Didn't know though. Just didn't know. If she wanted anything to do with the man after last night. Or if she might, but her partner didn't. And if they both did, what would happen after Mal left them together on the porch. Would she take him straight home? Or back into the bar, to warm up a little more respectably over drinks and chat? Into territory fraught with Renshaw's dangerous presence.

'Cuz another thing he didn't know was just how far Renshaw was willing to go. Truth be told, Mal wouldn't put it past him to shanghai his pilot and then work at sweetening the situation enough so that Wash would go along with it. The guy had what? Some plastic toys and a few gaudy shirts physically tying him to _Serenity_. How hard would those things be to replace? Could they compete against what Mal knew would be the sweetest thing of all for Wash? Soaring free of the world and into the Black? Didn't feel at all comfortable leaving him to wander about unsupervised.

With a smile that felt more like a spastic grimace, Mal clamped his fingers around Wash's biceps, pulling him to one side, saying, "'Scuse us, Ms Sullivan. Just on our way out." He kept moving, Wash's legs working stiffly as Mal hauled him around the woman and into the street. She pivoted to watch them go, and Wash was walking backwards by the time Mal got him to the mule, eyes fixed on her.

At the ATV, Mal let him go, giving him a little push toward the controls. Mechanically, Wash straddled the saddle, got the engine revving. All by feel, 'cuz he was still staring at Sullivan. Mal threw his leg over the seat, sliding in behind Wash, then giving him a sharp poke in the back to goad him into putting the mule in gear.

Wash took a long moment before complying. Then he lifted one hand. Sullivan mirrored his gesture, metal glinting in the light from the bar's windows. Wash shifted into first, rolling the mule forward, then twisting the handlebars into a U-turn, pointing them out of town. Which meant driving by the landing pads, one now occupied by a space-worthy vessel. And ladened as the mule was, they had to go slow. But maybe not as slow as Wash had them puttering past, his eyes definitely not on the road as he gazed up at the ship looming in the dark. Mal felt him take in some long, deep breaths, and he sniffed the air himself, taking note of the lingering scent of exhaust from the engine pods.

The mule bumped down the four centimeter drop off where asphalt ended and dirt began, and Wash turned his attention forward, flicking the headlights on to avoid pot-holes. The drive back to _Serenity_ was longer, slower, than the trip out, wallowing through the loose earth of the soybean field with the loaded trailer, and, except for the roar of the engine, silent.

~*~

* * *

_buxiubianfu_ – scruffy

_feng le_ – crazy

Gongnui – "Ox," a class of mid-sized transport vessel

_hun dan_ – bastard

_shing so_ – spacer, "star hand"

_Tze Fu_ – Purple Bellies


	8. Day Eight

Sticking Point (8/9)

* * *

~Day 8~

Mal refrained from taking Wash off-ship the next day, even though that put the man at risk of a Bester-swung spanner upside his head. Renshaw still prowled the town, and Mal couldn't shake the memory of the yearning looks Wash had cast in the _Golden Dawn's_ direction. They had a couple crates of scrap parts they'd picked up cheap a few worlds back, on the chance some of those parts could be of use to _Serenity_ or cannibalized to be so. So Mal set Wash to sorting those parts, into bits he judged could be of use and those he knew wouldn't be. He accepted that task with a single, tight-lipped nod, and Mal knew Wash full well knew that he was being given busy-work to keep him out of temptation's path.

A couple hours later, making a patrol sweep through _Serenity_ in the interest of letting his crew know he was keeping an eye on their progress – such as it was – he made his way back down the steps to the cargo bay. He felt a little bump of anxiety when he noticed the two scrap crates open and empty, most of the scrap heaped up beside them. A drop cloth spread out on the deck had an assortment of bits and pieces laid out in two orderly rows in front of them. But Wash was nowhere to be seen.

The sound of clanking chains above him drew his gaze upward, where he spotted his pilot, clinging like a monkey to the access grid on the cargo bay's ceiling. He opened his mouth, preparing to inquire – loudly – just what in the sphincters of hell he was about. Then snapped his mouth shut, pressing his lips together, supremely irritated. His shouting could startle the man, and while a tumble eight meters to the metal deck below would solve Mal's quandary over which of his crewmen to do away with, he'd then be without a pilot. Although at this point in time it was beginning to appear any future need of a pilot was becoming moot.

He contented himself with glaring up at the man, arms crossed over his chest. Sure enough, Wash soon felt the weight of his stare, turning his head to peer down at him.

"Captain!" he yelled delightedly. "I just finished it. Look!" He swung off the grid onto the catwalk, then hit the controls for the ceiling winch. The electric motor whined into action, reeling out a length of chain, at the end of which hung a large metal ring. Wash cut the winch when that ring was suspended about four meters above the deck. Then he clattered down the access steps and across the bay's deck to where Mal stood. His manic grin crumbled a bit at the sight of Mal's irritated scowl.

"Does my ship need that part?"

"Huh?" Wash glanced up at the dangling ring, then back to Mal, bloodshot eyes wide and earnest. "Oh, no, no, Captain. It's a secondary locking ring for the landing hydraulics on a C-class heavy transport. We've got no use for it." Blinking anxiously, he added hastily, "But I can put it back with the scrap if you want."

"Well, if we don't need it. But-" He waved a hand at Wash's work. "Whatcha got goin' here? Some kinda modern art?"

Wash stared at him a moment, then barked out a short laugh. "Ha! No, it's-" He broke off, darting away from Mal to one side of the bay, stooping to scoop up a large silver-gray ball from the deck, then twisting to leap straight up, lofting it off his fingertips in one smooth movement. It arced though the air, right through the center of the ring. Wash crowed, "Score!" then dashed after the ball to retrieve it, bouncing it on the deck as he trotted back to Mal.

"It's hoop ball," he declared, grinning a very pleased grin. He offered the ball to Mal. "Wanna play?"

Mal opened his mouth to say no, he didn't have the time. But, truth be told, he did, as he his own self was about as necessary and useful to the running of his downed ship at the moment as Wash was. And if he could help the guy loosen up some while keeping him on-board and out from under Renshaw's predatory eye, well, it would be the captainy thing to do.

So he took the ball, saying, "Ain't never played before." Which was true, baseball being the sport the town and country kids on Shadow organized themselves into whenever schooling and chores allowed.

"I'll go easy on ya," Wash replied, his grin taking on a wicked slant.

An hour later, he took a moment to huff and puff some air back into his lungs, flapping the front of his shirt in the hope of encouraging a breeze. He glanced up and caught sight of Zoe on an upper catwalk, leaning on the railing as she watched. Wash, flushed, the top of his flightsuit shucked and tied off around his waist by its sleeves, tank sweat soaked, flipped the ball to Mal as he trotted past him. "Your go," he panted. "Score's nine/one."

Mal got control of the ball, glanced back up, and found the catwalk now empty. Too bad. Was pretty sure this was Zoe's kinda game. And he sure coulda used the back-up. He charged Wash, now guarding the hoop, having found he was more likely to score by being extremely aggressive. Plus, Wash seemed to have more fun when a little wrestling was added to the play.

Zoe called them up for dinner, and they sat down in their sweaty kit, as Bester, looking more combed and polished than usual, cast superior looks in their direction. After all that exercise, Mal would have figured Wash would've worked up an appetite. But he just picked at his food, shaping it into a variety of patterns on his plate. Mal noticed Zoe was watching the man carefully, a little crease between her brows. It was reassuring to see that concern in her, however out of character. Less reassuring and even more out of character was the fact that Wash seemed completely oblivious to her regard.

Wash did glance up, peering out from under his brows, when Bester, rising with his empty dishes, breezily announced he was heading into town for the evening. He said nothing, though, his face completely still as his eyes followed the man as he dropped his plate and glass into the sink before heading for the gangway off the forward corridor, heading down to the cargo bay and the main exit. All the while, Mal was arguing with himself as to whether he should call the man back, deny him leave until he got his work done, or whether it was better to have _Serenity_ free of him for a few hours, especially in the sulky state he'd be in if his liberty were curtailed. What decided him was the tiny fluttering tic under Wash's right eye. Never seen that before. Decided the further apart his crewmen were from one another, the better, and he let Bester go.

Was Wash's stint at kitchen duty, and while he washed, dried, and put away, Mal and Zoe settled into the lounge, pulling out the star-checker set. Finished up their first game just as Wash put away the casserole dish then headed forward, Mal amiably cussing Zoe out for her more rapid than usual win. She beat him most times, but it didn't help that he'd been completely indifferent to his marbles' positions as he'd watched his pilot out of the corner of his eye. He didn't hear the _clank-hiss_ of a bunk hatch opening, so he figured Wash had, just as he had in recent evenings, gone on up to the bridge.

Second game he was doing better, actually making her work for it a bit. Until fifteen minutes in, when he heard footsteps in the forward corridor, coming toward the galley. 'Course it was Wash, his gorram weird _shing so_ shoes padding soft on the deck. Soft, but lots quicker than he usually moved. And he turned before he reached the galley. Mal realized Wash had gone through the starboard hatch to head down the gangway Bester had taken earlier, down into the cargo bay. Which led to out. And it came to Mal that while _Serenity's_ engine might be off-line, her communication systems were, thanks to Wash, in peak working order. And he reckoned there weren't nothing wrong with the _Golden Dawn's_ Cortex connections.

He glanced up at Zoe and she met his eyes with a little nod, acknowledging she had, of course, heard and followed the man's trajectory. The perfect thing about Zoe was he didn't have to pretend. He didn't have to pretend that he wasn't worried that his pilot might have just decided to jump ship, and was now heading into town, toward that spaceport hosting that functioning ship with a captain who had avidly courted that same said pilot for a month before Mal had won him. And who had shamelessly reengaged in that courtship just the night before. So, not having to pretend, he simply stood up, abandoning the game without explanation, heading for the cargo bay gangway, Zoe pretty much right on his heels.

Wash had made it into the cargo bay, yes, and the front hatch gaped open, letting in the earth-scented nighttime air. But there he had stopped. He stood under the hoop he'd suspended, spinning the silver ball between his hands. Mal made himself step soft as he came down onto the upper catwalk, and of course Zoe, just behind him, was as silent as always. So their presence didn't distract Wash as he backed out from under the hoop some few paces, then set himself loping back toward it, bouncing the ball on the deck, one, two, three times, before lofting it through the hoop with his right hand. He kept jogging, chasing after the ball, catching it up, turning, then bouncing the ball one, two, three times before lofting the ball with his left hand, through the hoop, jogging without a pause after it, fetching the ball, turning, bouncing one, two, three, tossing with the right, scoring, jogging, fetching, turning, bouncing one, two, three, tossing with the left...

Five minutes, Mal watched, then another ten. And the unrelenting sameness of the pattern Wash had set himself on drew up an uneasiness in him. 'Cause he'd seen that same kind of mindless, patterned movement somewhere before. It took him another few minutes of watching for the memory to surface. He'd been about six, his mama had taken him into town, a day off, 'cuz a carnival ship had touched down. Been games and rides and shows. Including a tiny exhibit of critters not established on Shadow. There's been a cat-like beast, not any bigger than their tom back at home, but with huge tufted ears, big old paws and not much of a tail, in a cage about two by three meters. And Wash was like that cat. Pace, pace, pace to one end of the cage, rear up and push off the wall with one paw, twisting around to pace, pace, pace to the other side, rear up, push off with the other paw, pivoting right around, mouth gaped just a bit with its panting, pink tongue just showing, eyes unfocused, unseeing. Again and again and again. A strip of the metal cage bottom and the places where that cat's paws had landed on its walls worn shiny.

"Gorram it," Mal muttered, then turning around, pushed past Zoe to head back to the galley. Kinda expected her to follow right after, but he'd been seated in the lounge, rolling marbles not in play from hand to hand for a few minutes before she came in. She sat back down, and moved the next marble on the board, blocking the magnificent run he'd maneuvered for. And he didn't even care. He thrashed his way through that game and through the next hour, losing both, the sound of that ball spanking against the deck echoing up faintly from the bay into the galley. He'd gotten so caught up in the rhythm of it, that when it stopped suddenly, his head came up, Zoe's movement mirroring his own. They paused, listening to the silence.

Mal had no hold on Wash. Guy wasn't a soldier, hadn't sworn loyalty to a cause and to obey all lawful orders. And hell, at this point Mal had no cause, and a goodly number of his orders weren't lawful. They had a deal, yeah, had shook on it when Wash came aboard. Wash would fly Mal's ship in return for a top pilot's cut of their jobs' profits. But as they weren't currently workin', there weren't currently any profits and hence, no cut. On top of that, and probably more significantly as far as Wash was concerned, they weren't flyin'. And, just as Mal had the power to toss Wash off his boat for any or no reason at all, Wash had the freedom to walk. At any time.

After a moment, a very long moment, they heard the pad of Wash's slow footsteps coming up the steps and into the corridor. Could have gone forward, toward his bunk or the bridge. But instead he turned aft, coming carefully down the steps into the galley. His hair stood in sweaty spikes around his head, his tank was drenched, and his eyes had the glazed look of someone who had worked himself into a state of unthinking numbness. Mal watched him, of course, Zoe too, but casually, and when he said nothing, they kept their heads down over their game board.

The man went straight for the kitchen, filling and drinking two glasses of water from the tap. He paused a moment, breathing hard, then drained a third glass more slowly. He washed the glass, dried it and put it away. Then he went forward. Again, Mal didn't hear the sound of a bunk hatch opening, so he figured Wash had gone all the way up to the bridge. Back to that fully operational Cortex system.

He stood, and Zoe said, "Good night, sir." He glanced at her, hearing more meaning behind those words than usual. She gave him a nod. And he realized, that as much of her extremely reasonable cynicism as she might direct toward their pilot, that she'd rather he stay than go. And that she knew that the _go_ side of the scale had a pretty heavy thumb pressing down on it at the moment.

He didn't sneak up the stairs to the bridge, but he did walk soft, intent on catching any chatter that might be going back and forth over his comm. He heard nothing, however, complete silence meeting him as he stepped over the threshold. Place was near dark as well, backside of Wyoming now facing its primary, and them now looking out into the deepest black. Was right pretty, a splash of stars twinkling through the blanket of atmosphere. He'd come to prefer, though, the stark, piercing points they became when viewed through vacuum.

As the navigation system was down – reasonable as they were still situated in Mr. Song's fallow field – _Serenity's_ boards were unlit. The only light Wash had going was the Cortex screen, lit up on cool gray standby. With the tiny red incoming wave alert flashing in the upper right corner.

Wash, seated in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, swiveled about a bit to watch him come in, giving him a nod before turning to look back out into the night sky.

"What's that?" Mal asked. And when Wash glanced back over his shoulder at him, he tilted his chin toward the blinking red light.

"It's for me," Wash replied, finger stabbing out to take the communication system off-line. The screen went dark, and the only light now came from the stars and the tiny, insistently blinking LED. "Captain Renshaw." He tucked his arms back tight across his chest.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Wash licked his lips, tongue tip running along the bottom of his mustache. "Waved earlier in the day. Few times, actually. Left a bunch of messages. Says they're lifting off tomorrow, at local dawn. That's oh five twenty-three _Serenity_ time."

As Wash spoke, Mal found his gaze being pulled to the helm. Something about it was off, not right. Then it struck him, with a shock like icy water dumped over his head. The dinosaurs. _Serenity_ had been flying with dinosaurs on her helm since the very first day Wash had lifted her up into the Black. And they were gone. Every last one of them, down to the little beak-mouthed leptocerawhatsis. His searching eyes fell to a pale shape on the deck by Wash's feet and, well enough adapted to the dark, made out that it was a small duffel. Zipped up and full. He was pretty sure he knew what was inside it.

Wash paused a moment, before finishing up, "Says that co-pilot's berth is still open."

Mal pulled his gaze off the duffel to peer through the darkness at his pilot. "What'd you tell him?"

"I... I haven't replied. Yet."

Mal's pride wouldn't allow him to beg, but he needed to know the man's intent. He took a long, slow breath, stepping forward a bit so he could see him better. "Could use an answer, Wash." He shifted his gaze, sweeping it meaningfully over the dinosaur-free helm before resting it again on the man's face. "You gonna take up with Renshaw?"

Wash looked up at him, licked his lips again, then caught the corner of his mustache between his canines, gnawing at it. That whole feature was definitely beginning to look a little raggedy. And while he didn't avert his gaze from Mal's, he didn't answer directly, instead saying with a quiet intensity, "I don't like bein' grounded."

Mal gave a near-silent snort at that understatement, then replied, low and steady. "So I've gathered. And I can't guarantee you it won't happen now and again. But I can guarantee I'll do everything in my power to get _Serenity_ back in the sky when it does."

Wash sat still a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I know that, Mal." The tension in his face eased a bit as he smiled slightly. "Know you'd be lifting _Serenity_ skyward on your own back right now, if you could."

Mal smiled in return, a one shouldered shrug acknowledging Wash spoke true. But then Wash broke eye contact, turning his face to look out and up at the night sky. "I don't like being grounded," he repeated, voice still soft, but winding up tighter with every word. "I don't like being stuck in the dirt. Tied down."

Mal heard too many layers in that, layers he didn't know if it would be a good idea to peel back. Folks formed layers for good reasons, just like their bodies formed calluses and scars over vulnerable flesh. He decided to leave it at that. He knew people under stress. Realized now was not the time to press for that answer, much as he wanted to. Because pressing too hard right now could make Wash jump away, jump the wrong direction, off _Serenity_, just to escape the pressure.

"I hear that," he said lightly, turning to leave. "See ya in the mornin'." He glanced back as he stepped through the hatch. Eyes still fixed on the starry sky, Wash had lifted one hand to set light fingertips on _Serenity's_ yoke.

~*~

* * *

_shing so_ – spacer


	9. Day Nine

Title: Sticking Point (9/9)

* * *

~Day 9~

Sleep hadn't come easy, and when it had finally gotten around to him, his dreams had been fretful, full of nagging worry. Better than bewildered baby-faced recruits staring down at their own guts cradled in their hands. But still, not restful. The particulars fled from his mind as he awoke, sitting bolt upright, concerned he'd slept through the alarm he'd set for five o'clock. He hadn't, was 15 minutes short of that, but he decided to forgo that last quarter hour, and got up, making his bed with a careless toss of his blankets. He dressed quick, then clambered out of his bunk, wondering if he still had a pilot. Notion came to him that if Wash _had_ walked during the night, heading for _Golden Dawn's_ 05:23 lift-off, that he'd shoot Bester. 'Cuz without Wash, there was really no point for Bester to stay living. And it would alleviate a lot of pent up aggravation on his own part.

He hadn't done anything special in last night's lock-down of _Serenity_, although he had the captain's codes and could have changed the password on the external hatches. Figured it showed a level of trust to just leave things be, and 'sides, Wash could probably hack his way around any changes Mal made to the locks were he to put his mind to it. So if Wash were still on board, it would only be because he'd chosen to stick it out.

Mal came up the steps and through the outer then inner hatch onto the unlit bridge, making his boots hit the deck with their usual weight and speed. Not hiding he was on the way up, hopin' there was someone there he wasn't hiding from. Eyes went right away to Wash's chair.

The sky outside the windows had faded from deepest black to a dark blue-gray, clouds having closed in to shroud the stars. His breath left him in a long, silent gust at the sight of his pilot's head and shoulders silhouetted against that gray sky. Chin up, face turned slightly to the left, so Mal could catch a bit of his profile. He stepped up closer, but not too close, going to the co-pilot's chair, resting his hands on its back. Wash didn't move until Mal quietly said, "Hey."

His head turned slightly, the eye Mal could see shifting toward him, glinting faintly in the pre-dawn light. After a moment, Wash gave him a tiny nod, then directed his gaze back out the window.

Watching, Mal realized. Eyes fixed in the direction of Wyoming's spaceport, watching and waiting for the sight of _Golden Dawn's_ departure. His own eyes went to the Cortex screen, to the tiny, insistently blinking in-coming signal. One of Wash's hands rested on _Serenity's _yoke. The other was on the console, awfully close to the comm system's _acknowledge message_ key.

After a long moment – a very long moment – Mal made himself say, voice tight and a little strange sounding to his own ears, "Reckon he'd swing by, pick ya up, were you to wave him."

Wash was silent a good full minute before he replied. "Reckon so."

Mal mulled over what he read from Wash's tone, what its artificial lightness revealed, what it concealed. Responding to the fear Wash couldn't let him hear, he said slowly, nodding at the Cortex controls, "Won't prevent ya."

Wash let out a long, shuddering breath, then spent some time breathing in and out before saying, "Appreciate that."

And Mal heard a hint of Wash's dry humor in his reply. But that didn't keep him from also hearing that, yes, he _did_ appreciate it. Which confirmed in Mal's mind that Wash had been in spots where he _would_ have been prevented from sending that wave. Also saw Wash's fingertips creep a centimeter closer to that Cortex key.

Mal glanced at the clock on the co-pilot's console, noting it read 05:04. He swung the the chair about, settling into it, putting it at an angle so he could easily turn his head to look where Wash was looking while still keeping his main focus on his pilot.

His puzzle of a pilot. Didn't know, honestly, why the guy was still sitting in that chair.

Could be he was balancing the satisfaction of being the sole, chief pilot of a boat, even one scrabbling after every coin, against that of being only a co-pilot on another, however profit-rich. Could see that, as while the guy liked being paid, he seemed to like having control of the helm – from its physical configuration to exactly how they got to where Mal decided they were going – even better. So, could be.

Knew Renshaw ran closer to the lawful side of things. Had its benefits. Besides payment coming at you in a more regular fashion, folks shot at you less. Mal couldn't argue that that wouldn't appeal to any sensible person. Now, it was true that there was plenty about Wash that Mal could not call sensible. But the guy had never shown any inclination toward liking a fight just for the sake of fighting. In fact, Mal had some real doubts about counting on Wash in any serious combat situation. Didn't even know if the guy had ever set his hand on a gun before. Had seen him in one bar-room brawl, and he'd done all right, although he'd added more humor than mayhem to the event. That was all moot, however, as Mal had hired him to steer his boat, not guard his back. And he wasn't gonna put Wash – hell, wasn't going to put _himself_ – in a situation where he was counting on Wash's fire-power. He was sure that Wash knew that. He also had to admit that the back-guarding issue was lots less likely to come up on Renshaw's boat than his. Figured Wash was smart enough to pick up on that, and that that wouldn't be a plus on the-stick-with-_Serenity_ side of the equation.

He could see Wash a little clearer now, and he glanced out the window. Clouds getting paler, picking up the electric blue of Heinlein's shine as it crept toward the horizon. Looking back, he noticed that Wash had never gotten around to pulling his flightsuit all the way on. Wondered that he wasn't chilled, bare armed, just a tank covering his chest. Wondered if the guy had shifted at all during the night. Wondered again, why he was still sitting there.

One positive Mal did have that Renshaw didn't was Zoe. And Mal saw pretty clear that Wash had an interest in her. Lots of folks, not surprisingly, did. But she gave him absolutely no encouragement. And besides, he was a pilot. Any day now, she'd be off his scanners and a whole new lust-object would be on them. Like Sullivan. Was true Wash had walked – well, stumbled – away from Sullivan and her partner his first night in town. But Mal knew he'd have gone along with her the second evening, had Mal been willing to risk letting him go. Any other port of call, those events would have worked out different, no doubt with Wash in those women's bed. Or at least in someone's bed at some point. No reason why Wyoming would be any different from all the other worlds _Serenity_ lit down on.

And all the reasons Wash might have to stay or go, all those normal, day-to-day reasons, were pretty much all up in the air now. 'Cuz Mal saw clearly that "reasonable" could not be used to describe Wash's current state of mind. And that Renshaw, or rather, Renshaw's fully functional boat was exerting a powerful draw on the man. So, why hadn't he picked up his gear and walked? Mal had seen the duffel of packed dinosaurs. Reckoned the rest of his stuff was just as ready to go.

Oh five twenty-three rolled up on the clock and the Cortex system chimed, signaling a new incoming message. Mal heard Wash's breath hitch, but he said nothing, not moving a muscle. Thirty seconds went by and it chimed again.

"Gonna answer?"

Wash jumped a little, then after a moment asked, "Is that an order, Captain?"

"It's your call, Wash." And he meant that in every meaning of that phrase.

Wash pulled his eyes from the flashing red _wave-waiting_ signal to study Mal's face, clearly turning his last sentence over in his mind. Then he took a quick breath, finger twitching just that little bit to hit the acknowledge key. Leaning forward to put himself in visual pickup, he said, "This is _Serenity_. Washburne speaking."

The screen came on, flashing up under Wash's chin. Wasn't flattering, its greenish light making the guy look even stranger and crazier than Mal thought he was. He hoped. From where he sat, Mal could not see whoever was on the other end. But he could hear just fine.

"Washburne, hey!" Renshaw came on immediately, his hearty voice thinned a bit by _Serenity's_ tinny speaker. And Mal could tell he was wearing his most charming smile. "Glad to finally hear back from you. Was startin' to worry. Everything okay where you are?" The man's volume dipped, concern coloring his tone. "You free to talk?"

"Yeah, sorry, I'm good, fine, we all are," Wash replied, talking just a bit too fast, the hand he still had on _Serenity's_ yoke flexing, squeezing. "Just, y' know, busy with, with the maintenance... stuff."

A new noise came through the speaker, getting gradually louder in the background as Renshaw said, "Yeah, some ships been pretty hard-used. Spend more time stuck in the dirt than out in the Black, just tryin' to keep all the parts together."

Wash had been distracted by that noise, the whine of jet engines firing up, and he sat there slack-jawed for a moment before saying absently, "Yeah. Stuck."

"Could swing by, y' know. Pick ya up. That berth's still open."

Wash's attention snapped into an intent alertness, focused on whatever he was picking up from the man on his screen. Mal felt his stomach clench, 'cuz what he saw on Wash's face was awful like what he thought he might see on a condemned man's face when offered a pardon.

"I..." Wash trailed off as the sound of the engine pods intensified, the sound of turbines really beginning to bite into air. A burst of strained laughter skittered out of his mouth, high, nervy. He managed to choke it back to say, pitch just a little slippery, "I... N-no. No, thanks, no. I... I just, just got the thrust controls on the primary yoke shaft exactly the way I like 'em."

"You sure?" Renshaw prodded.

Mal watched Wash's grip on the yoke tighten, knuckles going white, as he replied, "Yeah. I-" Then his voice cut out on him and he could only nod, mouth working soundlessly.

"Well, then, you take care, Washburne," Renshaw said with a geniality that couldn't quite cover the anger beneath it. After a tiny pause, he went on with a false solicitude, "Hey, tell ya what. I'll check back in with ya in a couple weeks, see how you're doin' with that _maintenance_." He chuckled knowingly, then said, "Renshaw, out."

The screen went dark, the sound of Renshaw's voice and the _Golden Dawn's_ engines cutting off.

Wash slumped back in his seat, his eyes lifting from his console to look out the window, to Wyoming's spaceport. Mal followed his gaze, and sure enough, within moments a tiny dark shape rose above the horizon, backlit by haze as the rising primary lit up the cloud cover. It seemed to hover a moment, then started to swell in size, and Mal realized that it was coming toward them. An involuntary noise escaped him, protesting the cruelty of it, as the Gongnui swooped over them, jibing in a sudden upward angle just in front of _Serenity's_ nose.

Wash rose from his seat, leaning forward, hands on the console, twisting his neck to follow the climbing ship, and Mal didn't think he knew he'd done so. Also thought he didn't know his thumb had come to rest so very close to the _outgoing message_ key. Wondered if Wash was going to break, to swallow his pride, wave Renshaw, beg him to come back and get him. Eyes locked on the _Golden Dawn_, Wash's breath came quick and shallow through parted lips. Throat taut, exposed, Mal could easily see the pulse point under his jaw, fluttering hard and fast.

Was probably a kindness, those clouds, _Golden Dawn_ disappearing into them, red and green running lights smearing as she pierced their enveloping cover. Wash stared upward long after she'd vanished from view, and Mal knew he was pursuing her in his brain, astrogation's clean math fusing with his gut sense of how a ship ran.

Didn't know how long Wash would have stood there, mind gone from a body braced in frozen immobility. But with his response to Renshaw, Wash had placed himself into Mal's hands. Trusting him, as best as Wash could trust, to see _Serenity_ out of her current fix and back into the Black. Honestly had no idea why Wash would do such a thing, but there it was. So Mal had to bring him back to the here and now, get him, get all of them, back to work.

He stood, moving toward Wash as he would have done with a spooked horse back on Shadow. And once he got close to him, he really couldn't help but notice the smell coming off the man. He'd run hot and hard the day before, and stress layered its own sharp tang over the sweat of exertion. Could be a chore, keepin' clean on a Rim-running ship, given how tight her water needed to be rationed. Showers short and on strict rotation. Laundry done only in ports with utility hook-ups. Easier than when hunkered in some front-line trench, yeah, but keeping your own personal aroma down to a minimum still took some effort. But Wash had always managed before now.

Was just about to suggest the man go on take a shower, out of rotation as it may be, a long one, thinking that that physical pleasure might offer him some simple relief, when Wash asked abruptly, "Bester working?"

And Mal had to say, "Don't think he's back yet, Wash."

Wash's lips compressed into a thin line as his jaw muscles bunched, holding his mouth closed tight. Avoiding his eyes, he gave Mal a stiff nod. Then, in a sudden burst of frantic motion, he swung around him to clatter down the gangway into the sensor station in _Serenity's_ nose.

Clenching his fists, Mal muttered, "_Tianxia suoyoude ren dou gaisi_." The guy was clearly looking for some room. But Mal really wished he'd headed for his own bunk, rather than for their sensor suite and its easily damaged equipment. After a few moments, Mal decided the only thing he could do was trust him, trust that even as tightly wound as he was he wouldn't do anything to harm his ship. Or himself.

He spun around, heading toward the galley. He caught scent of coffee half way down the corridor and picked up his pace. Zoe had the percolator burbling away and something frying in a pan. Tan protein, he saw when he came up beside her at the shove, scrambled with a can of peppers and onions. It smelled good, Zoe doing her bit to try to keep up morale.

"Bester back?" he asked.

Breaking up a clump of protein with the side of her spoon, Zoe shook her head no, then asked, "Wash?"

"Still here. A little out of sorts."

She tilted her chin up, lifting her eyes to the galley windows above. "Saw the Gongnui go by. Renshaw ditched him, _shi_?"

"More like Wash turned him down."

They stood in silence for a moment, Zoe's spoon rapping the bottom of the pan every now and then as she stirred. She kept her eyes on her task, but he could tell she was thinking things over by the tightness at the corners of her mouth.

She asked, "Should I keep an eye on him?"

"Prob'ly not a bad idea. But-"He broke off, leery of telling her how to interact with a man who she had no use for, but who he didn't want further agitated.

She shot him a sideways glance. "I'll walk soft."

He left her to finish up her cooking, going down to the cargo bay to unlock the front hatch. Took the time to step out, look around, to see if maybe Bester _had_ made it back the night before, and too drunk to remember the key code, was maybe now sleeping it off in Mr. Song's field. But sadly, no. The field was Bester free.

He came back up, had a very quiet breakfast with Zoe, just the two of them. He did their dishes, while she went forward to check on Wash. As she didn't come straight back reporting carnage, he assumed the best. Made sure both the remaining protein and coffee were set to stay warm, in case Wash decided he was hungry anytime soon. Bester could go hang as far as Mal was concerned.

He did want his mechanic back, however, and sooner rather than later, and he couldn't keep himself from lurking in the cargo bay, going to the front hatch on a regular basis to peer toward town, looking to see the man trudging home. After an hour of this, though, he was pretty much done with this waiting nonsense. Decided he'd go into town and hunt Bester down. He'd take the mule, trailer attached, just in case he found the guy drunk or hungover. Wasn't gonna let him sit behind him, maybe heave all down his back.

After hooking the up the trailer, he checked the fuel. A little low, so he filled it. Mule ready, he went topside to fill Zoe in on his plan. Was climbing up the last flight of stairs to the landing that led to the forward corridor, when he noticed something a little odd about the ambient light. Squinting up, he noticed the exterior access hatch to _Serenity's_ upper surface was open. Not only that, but a pair of feet dangled down from it, Zoe's by the boots.

He trotted quickly up the last few steps, putting his hand on a ladder rung as he peered upward through the open hatch, blinking at the blue glare spilling into his eyes.

"Zo'?"

She leaned forward, looking down between her knees at him, seated as she was on the edge of the hatch. Couldn't see her face, backlit as she was by bright sky.

"Sir?"

"What the sphincters of hell..?"

"Keepin' an eye out," she informed him.

She scooted over to one side as he clambered up the ladder, coming all the way up onto the narrow workspace around the hatch, turning before he crouched down next to her so he could follow her gaze. Forward, up the long, thirteen meter slope of _Serenity's_ neck to where it peaked above the bridge. To where Wash stood on the very highest point of the hull, a number of access panels flipped open around his feet. If he'd noticed Mal's arrival, he gave no sign of it. He'd yet to pull on the top of his flightsuit, a fresh breeze rippling its loose fabric, tugging at his wild spiked hair.

"What's he doin'?" As he watched, Wash squatted, reaching in an open panel, then straightened up, pulling free a cylindrical object, about as thick as his wrist and as long as his arm. He held it before his face, twirling it between his hands, before setting it down by his feet, alongside three or four identical cylinders. Suddenly alarmed, Mal bolted up so quick that Zoe darted out a steadying hand, setting it on his calf, as he demanded, "Is he pullin' pieces off my ship?"

"Looks to me like he's checkin' over the antenna array, maybe the frequency generators."

"Huh." He began to sit down beside her, but then noticed something that almost had him jumping right back up. He fiercely curbed the impulse, remaining in a crouch, not wanting to make any other sudden moves that might startle his pilot. Voice low, he ground out, "Why ain't he on a safety rig?"

Her tone was easy enough when she answered, but he could tell by the set of her brows that she wasn't all that comfortable with the situation herself. She might not like the guy, but she wasn't gonna wanna see him splat himself in the dirt some 15 meters below. That was a killing fall. "Was wandering around loose up here when I found him. Called for him to come put on a harness and line, but he waved me off."

"Wha..? Waved you off? He _disobeyed_?" Mal sputtered. Then he turned to stare at her in astonishment. "You let that happen?"

"Wasn't gonna go chasin' after him, strap him up and hitch him to the boat," she said with a little shrug. "Mighta kicked up a fuss. Mighta slipped and fell." She squinted at him sideways. "'Sides which, sir, that whole metaphor is kinda fraught and overheated."

"_Shen me_?"

She simply gusted an exasperated sigh, turning her gaze back to Wash, crossing her arms under her breasts, her shoulders up and tight. Was surprised by the amount of upset she was showing. Then, as a chilly gust pressed his damp shirt against his sweaty back, Mal realized it might not be tension, but rather cold that had her looking stiff. The clouds had burned off, but the morning air had yet to warm up, and way up here she had no cover, and moving around vigorously enough to generate heat would be foolish. Even in a safety rig.

"Entire gorram crew's lost its mind," Mal muttered. "Includin' me." He sat down next to her, letting his lower legs dangle through the hatch. "Go fetch your coat. I'll keep an eye on him 'til you get back."

She gave a little grunt of acknowledgement, then swung down the ladder to the landing below, heading for her bunk.

The next five minutes were a bit of a torment, Wash pacing freely up and down Serenity's sloping hull, hopping back and forth over the open hatches and the stack of cylinders he had stacked, even peering up at some doohickey he held over his head, feet wandering aimlessly as he tried to get the best light on it.

Mal started a bit when Zoe poked her head up through the hatch, saying, "Bester's back."

"Glory hallelujah," Mal drawled sardonically.

Coming the rest of the way up the ladder, she continued, "Caught him comin' outta the galley head just as I came down the hatch. Gabbled a bit, then said he was lookin' at another day's worth of work, at least that much more delay. Then he took off real quick for the engine room." She turned to sit again on the edge of the hatch, tucking her coat tails beneath her, between the chilly metal and her butt.

"Delay? _Delay_? I'm up to my neck and past it in delay!" Was sharp enough that, twelve meters away, Wash lifted his head, squinting at him. Mal bent his mouth in a fake smile, lifting a hand. Wash waved back, then ducked back down to the array he'd just hauled up out of its shell. Mal decided enough was enough.

"Wash," he called, casual as he could. The man looked back up at him, blinking rapidly. Having his attention, Mal went on, speaking slow, loud, and clear, "You go on, put all that stuff back now. Appreciate the initiative, but let's hold off on diggin' too deep into all that hoo-ha until we're in a proper spaceport, huh?"

The guy stood there staring at him for a moment, Mal wondering whether he was gonna defy him. Wondering if he was even really hearing him. Wondering what, exactly, he was gonna do about it if Wash went right back to taking things apart. Didn't relish the thought of chasing an untethered man around this high up in the air.

He gusted a little sigh when Wash gave him a slow nod, then began restoring the part he'd just pulled free. He exchanged a relieved look with Zoe, then swung around, toes hunting for a ladder rung, telling her, "Gonna go light a fire under Bester's butt. Y' hear gunfire or screams, just ignore it."

~*~

So, couldn't have been much more than fifteen minutes later, and Mal was frog-marching Bester forward toward his bunk in the interest of getting him packing his duffel post haste. Every step he took, he could feel the hum of the engine through the soles of his boots, _Serenity_ come alive again. The girl – Kaylee Frye – was runnin' off home to talk over his job offer with her folks. And he could see she was young, sixteen maybe. But kids grew up fast out here on the Rim, and opportunity was thin enough on the ground on Wyoming that they maybe wouldn't balk against her following where her joy and genius led her. He had hope. Yes, he did.

There was a bit of a fuss when he and Bester intersected with Zoe and Wash as they tumbled down the upper starboard hatch. Well, more like Wash tumbling and Zoe catching, least-wise as best she could. The man managed to clobber himself pretty good as he fell down the ladder, forehead bouncing off a rung.

One hand pressed to his brow, Wash half-lunged, half-staggered out of the access way into the corridor, reaching out to grab Bester by the shoulder with the other. Zoe was right behind him, her fist clamped in the back of his tank, doing her bit to keep him upright. Bester cringed back from him, and Mal had to admit Wash gave him cause; white as a ghost 'cept for two spots of high color on his cheekbones, eyes wide and wild, hair standing up every which way.

"You fixed it!" He gave Bester a shake, then turned to Mal with a delighted little laugh, eyes shining crazy blue, their whites so red they looked like they were bleeding. "He fixed it!"

"Nah." He pulled Bester out of Wash's grip, and gave him a shove forward. "Zoe, escort this _wuyong_ _feiwu_ to his bunk, see to it he gets packed up double quick." With a nod and a tiny but supremely satisfied smile, she took hold of Bester's arm, just above his elbow.

"Mal, c'mon!" the man squawked, trying to yank himself free. "Ya gotta be kiddin', hirin' on that, that, whatcha call her? Prairie harpy! Hirin' _her_ on over _me_?"

Mal's lips tightened, and he hoped to hell the girl hadn't heard his unkind words. He jerked his head impatiently at Zoe, and Bester let out a yelp as her thumb tip dug into a pressure point. Then she had him hustling down the corridor, yipping in pain as he went.

Wash followed all this, mouth slightly agape, red-rimmed eyes round, palm pressed tight to his forehead. He dragged his gaze away from them to peer at Mal when he grabbed Wash's wrist, pulling his hand away to examine the rising red welt just above his left eyebrow.

"Y' ain't bleedin'. Good." He inspected the man's pupils. "Didn't concuss yourself, did ya? Need ya flyin' straight."

Seemed Wash heard only one word in what Mal had just said to him, because he completely ignored his question. "_Tian xiaode_," he breathed. "Flying. I'll go-"

He started for the bridge, but Mal braced his heels, hauling him back. Wash halted instantly, whipping his head around to stare at Mal's hand, tight around his wrist. Mal could feel Wash's tendons cording beneath his grasp as his fist clenched. Except for the muscles of his forearm and biceps quivering as they bunched into tight knots, he'd become completely still.

Mal immediately let him loose, dropping both hands to his sides, rocking back from him a bit. "Here's what I need, Wash," he said, voice soft and level. Then he waited patiently as the man untangled himself from the mental loop that had caught him up. Took a couple seconds, but then he was looking into Mal's eyes, relaxing some, and Mal knew he'd hear what he said next.

"Need you to do a full check-list run through, make sure all systems are go."

"A full..." He trailed off, his body easing into its peculiar slack-jointed stance. The one that hid his freaky-fast reflexes. He gave Mal a sideways look, saying, "Well, yeah, Captain. Of course."

Mal felt a mental knot loosen as his pilot showed him he might be a little bent, yeah, but he weren't broke. Bent was fine by Mal. He could deal with bent. Preferred it even.

"Second thing. If and when we're good to go, need you to first set us down at the spaceport. Put Bester off, take our new mechanic on."

Wash nodded, quirking a little smile, clearly liking the idea of putting Bester off.

"Third thing." He paused, making sure Wash was still following him. He shifted impatiently, eyes wandering away from Mal to look forward. Mal tapped his chest, bringing his attention back. "Clean up some, huh? Got new crew comin' on. Prob'ly meet the family. Thinkin' we wanna make a good impression."

Wash's fingers darted up to his chin, to the three day stubble there. Which, being blond, wasn't as obvious as if Mal had left off shaving for as long. But shaving wasn't the major issue, and Mal watched it dawn on Wash how long he'd been letting basic hygiene slide.

"Uh, yeah," he said, cheeks getting a little pink, flicking Mal a chagrined glance, not quite meeting his eyes. "Yeah. Check list, spaceport, clean up. I'm on it, Captain."

"Go," Mal ordered, with a shooing gesture toward the bridge, and Wash was springing away from him, loping up the corridor, taking the stairs to the bridge three at a time.

Another twenty minutes and _Serenity's_ turbines were spinning in an exultant whine, lifting them out of farmer Song's field, all systems go. Mal wondered if Wash would be able to resist throwing them straight away all the way up, out of the world and into the Black. So he was standing right beside the pilot's seat, one hand on its back, the other on the console, just in case. Wasn't at all because he was near as eager as Wash to see his boat lifting into the sky, not at all.

But if Wash were tempted, he never showed it, setting them down pretty as you please on the landing pad the _Golden Dawn_ had lifted from that morning. He powered them down, preset their take-off sequence, then rose from his chair.

"Gonna go tidy up, Captain. You got an estimated time for lift-off?"

"Soon, I'm thinkin'. Won't take much time to put Bester off. Not sure how much we'll need to get Miss Frye on."

"Miss Frye?" Wash repeated, for the first time taking interest in the identity of their potential new mechanic. Mal shot him a look, wondering if he was taking on trouble of the inter-crew bunk bouncing variety. If he was fixing to see Wash's interest flit from the unassailable Zoe to the all too likely assailable Kaylee.

He wouldn't have it. Wouldn't have the complications a shipboard romance would be bound to create. She was just a kid, gorramit, clearly a little naïve, a little too trusting. Wash was ten years her senior, easy. And pilots had an all too justified reputation for fickle and wandersome ways. Was a recipe for heartbreak and tears. And he wasn't about to let that happen to a girl under his care. He'd give Zoe a heads-up, make sure she knew to keep an eye out.

"Yep," he replied shortly. "You'll meet her soon enough. Go on, get cleaned up."

With a compliant nod, Wash headed out the hatch and down the steps, two at a time, blissfully unaware of his captain's suspicious thoughts.

First order of business, once Mal had the main hatch open, its ramp leading down to the town's main street, was to see Bester off. Looked like the man had a lot of things he wanted to say as he slouched away, duffel over one shoulder, toolbox in the other hand. The terrified glances he kept shooting at Zoe, though, as she stood cross-armed at the bottom of the ramp, suggested she may have had a few words with him while she helped him pack up. Could maybe even have been more than just harsh language involved. Mal did feel a little bad about leaving Bester behind. Not for Bester, but for the folks of Wyoming.

Once he was off, though, a whole heap of other folk poured on. The Fryes, of course, Kaylee's pa and brother, who Mal had already met, and her ma. And then a whole passel of aunts, uncles, cousins, as well as friends, neighbors and a couple of dogs. Sheriff Huan, farmer Song, Mrs. MacGregor from the sundry store, all come to get a good look at the folks their Kaylee had set her heart on flying off with. Was clear they had some worries. But at the same time, Mal had moved courteously and circumspectly among them, and that spoke in _Serenity's_ favor.

Wash came down in the middle of all this, Mal regretting pretty quick that he had. Not that he hadn't cleaned up. He'd combed his hair, shaved, trimmed and tidied his mustache, had probably swabbed himself liberally with cleansing gel, and had definitely changed. Into his brightest shirt, the orange and blue one, over his orange flightsuit. And he greeted Kaylee's family with a near-manic cheerfulness, bloodshot eyes maybe a little too bright, grabbing her father's hand to pump it enthusiastically. And Mal couldn't blame him for his maniacalness, 'cuz he was feeling pretty gorram giddy himself. But he was managing to squash it down enough so Kaylee's parents weren't trepidatious about sending their daughter off into the Black with a bunch of crazy people. And Wash was kinda pushing that envelope there. Plus, the ugly purpling bruise just over his left eye wasn't helpful, clear evidence that folks could get banged up pretty good on a ship.

So before Wash could get to Kaylee's mama and aunties, Mal took him by the shoulder, and sent him off to do another pre-flight check. Then he kinda shoved Zoe to the forefront. 'Cuz if anyone could reassure them as to their sanity and Kaylee's safety aboard _Serenity_, it would be her. Best moment in all this, to Mal's mind, was the sight of Zoe gazing down in bemusement at the large bowl of fresh _douhua_ Kaylee's mama had just pushed into her hands.

Took about an hour or so, which was pretty darn quick considering this was a major leave-taking on Kaylee's part, but eventually he got all her kith and kin, friends and neighbors and the two dogs out of his cargo bay. Helped that Kaylee herself was eager to go, and kept dropping heavy hints of "Bye, Ma, _zaijian_, Auntie Hester, yep, yep, I'll be sure to wave ya regular. Bye, now!"

Bay cleared of non-_Serenity_ personnel, he, Zoe and Kaylee lugged her gear – duffel bag of clothing, another of bedding and other personal items, and a battered but substantial tool box – up the stairs to the galley. They left the tools there, hauling the duffels up to the hatch of the bunk that would be Kaylee's. Leaving them there, and continuing on up to the bridge, they found Wash in his chair, turned around to watch them step in. The helm hummed, fully powered up, the board twinkling with green telltales. Wash's eyes fixed on Mal's face, their intensity demanding that he give him the word to go.

Mal set his hand under Kaylee's elbow reassuringly, having noted the little flicker of concern crossing her features as she studied her new crewmate. "Thought Kaylee might wanna watch lift-off, Wash. We ready?"

The man simply laughed, a quicksilver burst, spinning his chair forward, right hand darting out to flip a series of toggles while his left gripped the yoke. The pods roared smoothly to life, and Kaylee gave a little "Oh," bobbing her knees as the lift pushed the deck up against her soles. Wash laughed again and Mal couldn't help but grin himself.

And they were flyin'. Mal gave himself a moment, letting it all soak in, his ship alive around him, his pilot, hands swift and sure on her controls, lifting them, oh so sweetly, into the sky. Then Kaylee stepped forward, completely unafraid, eyes shining with delight as she gazed out the front screen as the ground dropped away beneath them. And Mal noticed Wash had _Serenity_ rising slightly off her own horizontal, her nose tipped down a bit, so the dwindling Wyoming could be seen clear by anyone staring down at it through the front screen. Which Wash wasn't, his eyes lifted to the ever darkening sky, hands moving by feel on his board. But Kaylee, naturally enough, was watching her home fall away, a mix of excitement, joy and anxiousness flitting over her face.

They rose up, Wyoming shrinking into dun colored ball, Wash easing the pods from turbine power to scramjet to pumping plasma when he ran out of atmo to push them along. His face wore a fierce concentration as he felt his way carefully forward, sensitive to any untoward sounds or sensations. Kaylee watched all this with an intense curiosity, and Mal wondered what she was learning from what she was hearing and seeing and feeling.

She said, "Oh," again when, after punching in their course for Paquin, Wash engaged _Serenity's_ pulse drive. Was a long moment, all of them quiet, staring out into the star-pierced Black.

Wash was breathing a little hard, his hands clinging still to the yoke, although he could have safely set the autopilot. Thinking maybe he needed a little alone time, Mal suggested genially, "Hey, Zoe, how 'bout we give Kaylee the tour?"

So they did, starting with the galley and its lounge and kitchen, back to the engine room – which she already seen – then heading below to the cargo bay, pointing out the hatches to the two shuttles as they passed by. They showed her the passenger dorms with the attached infirmary, and it turned out she'd already seen this area as well. Pink cheeked and sheepish, she confessed that Bester had snuck her up into the engine room by one of the access ladders just aft of the dorms. Mal couldn't help but be surprised by how much thought and initiative the guy had applied to this little endeavor. From there, they headed back up to the bridge.

This time, Wash rose immediately as Kaylee stepped in, approaching her to take her hand, grinning hugely. And Mal was greatly relieved to see there weren't any traces of crazy around that grin. Just Wash. About as happy as Mal had ever seen him, but still just Wash.

"Sorry I didn't give you much of a welcome last time, Miss Frye-"

"Aw, just Kaylee." And she was beaming just as bright as Wash, clearly enjoying being the focus of his attention. "'S'all right. Could see ya was busy."

"Kaylee it is. And I'm Wash," he replied eagerly, still holding her hand, pulling her gently forward, gesturing toward the co-pilot's seat. "Sit down if you like. Gotta bunch of ideas about up-grading _Serenity's_ helm controls, could be lots of fun!"

Kaylee looked back to Mal to see if that were all right, and he smiled, giving her the nod. So she settled into the chair, letting her eyes roam from the helm, out into the Black and back, rattling off questions, Wash happily answering.

After a couple minutes, Zoe leaned toward Mal to say quietly, "Gonna go check her bunk, make sure Bester didn't leave anything nasty behind, do a bit of cleaning."

"Thanks, Zo'," he said warmly, truly grateful she was taking this chore on, a gesture of welcome to their new crew member, and an affirmation she was backing his impulsive decision to hire Kaylee on. With a little nod, she turned and left.

He stood in the center of the bridge, back a ways from the helm, arms crossed over his chest, just listening to his crew talk, to Kaylee's curiosity and enthusiasm, to Wash's growing pleasure. Understood maybe two words out of five of the chatter just spillin' outta their mouths, but he didn't mind that, not a bit. Realized he was smiling like a _bun dan_, but he didn't mind that either.

Some fifteen minutes later, Zoe came back up to stand beside him, listening for a while herself. Her face was completely still, but Mal knew she was smiling just as hard as he was, on the inside. She spoke up, though, when Kaylee paused to take a breath.

"Hey, Kaylee." The girl turned to face her right away, eyes a little wide, maybe a tad daunted by her new stoic first mate. Mal was surprised and gratified when Zoe actually smiled at her, something she never would have done with a new recruit, as she said, "How 'bout we get you unpacked and settled into your bunk?"

Kaylee stood up immediately, clearly eager to explore the space that would be her very own. "Oh, that would be really nice, Miss Alleyne-"

Zoe cut in, still smiling. "Just Zoe."

"Zoe," Kaylee repeated shyly, stepping toward her.

As they started aft, Zoe went on, saying, "After that, I'll show you around the kitchen. We all do our bit with the cookin' and the clean up."

"Shiny!" Kaylee lowered her voice as she asked, sounding a little shocked, "Even the captain?"

Zoe chuckled. "Yep."

Mal watched them leave, then stepped forward to lower himself into the co-pilot's seat, finding it still warm with his new mechanic's body heat. He sighed, staring out into the Black, enjoying the view. Wash echoed his sigh, stretching out his legs, lounging back with one elbow resting on the arm of his seat, his opposite wrist draped over the yoke.

"For sure knows her stuff," Wash said, in a tone of deep satisfaction. "Really looking forward to digging into the helm controls with her. And cheerful! Crew is always better with a little cheer in it." He sighed again, a contented smile curling his lips. "What a sweet kid."

Seeing his opening, Mal pounced on it. "That's right, a sweet kid. _Just_ a kid. One not to be taken advantage of." Wash swiveled to face him, brows climbing at his tone, which meant Mal could peg him with a straightforward stare as he continued meaningfully, "You reading me?"

Wash lifted both hands as he assured him, "Loud and clear, Captain. Loud and clear." One hand came to rest over his heart as he raised the other up higher. "You got absolutely no worries from me on her account."

And Mal believed him. Didn't stop the niggling fretfulness that he just might have some worries from Kaylee on Wash's account. Couldn't quite put out of his mind how she'd come to be on his boat in the first place.

"Right, then," he said with a quick nod. He rose. "Gonna go make sure she's settlin' in okay."

"_Ha__ibucuode_, Cap'n." He gave Mal a slanting, complicit smile, knowing he was opening himself up for a gibe with his next words. "Hope she's a better cook than I am."

Mal took him up on it, tossing over his shoulder as he turned, "Not much to worry 'bout there." And Wash chuckled at the hit.

Mal had got as far as the outer bridge hatch, when from behind him he heard the _zzzup_ sound of a zipper opening. He stopped, one hand on the hatch frame, twisting to look back at Wash. Facing forward, his back to Mal, he was looking down, fiddling with something in his lap. With a little jolt of alarm, Mal wondered what the hell, in that area, Wash had just zipped open. Then his hand came up, holding the T-Rex before him, having just pulled it from the duffel.

"Rawr," Wash growled gruffly.

Shaking his head, grinning so wide as to near split chin from cheeks, Mal started down the stairs, feeling, just at this moment, that things were pretty gorram right in the 'verse.

~*~

* * *

_bun dan_ – idiot

_douhua_ – soybean custard

Gongnui – "Ox," a class of mid-size transport vessel

_Haibucuode_ – all right, okay, fine

_Shen me?_ – What? Huh? Excuse me?

_Shi_ – affirmative, yes, okay

_Tian xiaode _– Name of all that's sacred

_Tianxia suoyoude ren dou gaisi._ – Everyone under the heavens should die.

_wuyong feiwu_ – useless failure, idle loser

_zaijian_ – goodbye


End file.
